


When the Going Gets Weird, the Weird Turn Pro

by MajorEnglishEsquire



Series: Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Barebacking, Bathtubs, Blood and Gore, Canada being Canada, Canon-Typical Violence, Coffee, Conventions, Dating, Driving, Fights, Fluff, Guns, Height Differences, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injury, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mean Dean, Monster of the Week, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Season/Series 10, Self-Harm, Sobriety, Starbucks, Tattoos, Texas being Texas, Texting, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 167,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4369628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So," he restarts, "I love you."</p><p>"But...?" Chuck prompts, nearly unable to swallow, ready and willing to panic at a moment's notice.</p><p>"I didn't say there'd be an exception to that statement."</p><p>Chuck chews on that for a moment.</p><p>"I love you, too."</p><p>"Thank you," there's a smile in his voice.</p><p>---</p><p>The follow-up to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3829039/chapters/8539552">Stamp Me with Your Signature</a> which was supposed to be a one-shot but is now just really, really <i>not</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a doctor of journalism

**Author's Note:**

> References Season 10 events and follows [Stamp Me with Your Signature](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3829039/chapters/8539552). Dean/Cas side pairing. Charlie is alive because fuck you.
> 
> I do not own the rights to these characters, setting, show, etc. No harm is intended.

Chuck wakes up, body tense and ready to panic. His hand flies out and searches the other side of the sheets. They're empty, of course. Because they've been empty since three days after Sandalphon. Chuck only got a few days with Sam before he was called off. He's been alone in his apartment for four days at this point. But his brain is trying to convince him that Sam was there and now he's not and that means Sam left and is never ever coming back.

Panic grips him hard. He tries not to see old memories of Sam dead and broken. Or his broad back as he shoulders his bags and _leaves_ , leaves forever.

He scrambles for his phone, plucks it off its power cord.

There are three texts from Sam.

**Did u read about this underwater volcano off the W coast? Idk I get really excited when volcanoes make new land. It just seems weirdly hopeful.**  
**Now I am looking at time lapse photos of new islands being created by volcanoes.**  
**Yeah maybe I just looked at volcanoes for two hours don't judge me I am going to bed.**

Chuck wipes his eyes and collapses back.

 **I love you nerd** , he texts.

He gets hit back almost automatically.

**Ssshhhhh I know I said I was going to bed but volcanoes.**

Incredible.

«»

Chuck is still holding off on deciding where they'll end up together. Moving into the Men of Letters bunker, all four of them present and, increasingly, Charlie, as well, sounds incredibly strange. It has the potential to be super invasive and it's not really an option he wants to be considering.

He's spent so much time alone and in relative peace that it seems ridiculous to even think it.

Chuck's good when he's alone, you know?

Except when he's writing this kind of shit to himself in a Word document and realizes that aching hollow in the center of him is because he's gonna have to sleep alone tonight.

It's not so much loneliness. He could always deal with being lonely. Specifically, it is Sam's absence. He livens and brightens everything. He's warm and firm and he radiates surety.

It's a brothers-only hunt this week. A case that they feel was left unfinished. A former victim fallen into trouble again. Cas split off to serve as Charlie's backup and Chuck simply still doesn't think he'll be valuable enough on hunts to join them, even just sitting in the motel room, standing by with research at the ready.

He started regretting it as soon as he'd said he wasn't coming. Instantly. _As. soon. as._ It was automatic. Dean had seemed to assume that he was just swinging by to pick Sam up and Chuck didn't want to be there to inject himself into their business when Dean had made it clear that it had a personal edge to it.

Sam had tried to tell him that was nonsense, right off the bat. Chuck made other excuses, though. Things he said he wanted to write. And they stood pressed against the front door for a half hour before the Impala pulled up. They stayed inside, in the dark of the entryway and Sam just held Chuck's hand flat between his two palms. Chuck could feel every burn, scar, and callous on Sam's hands. Sam just pressed his hand and held it there. Splayed and slotted their fingers together. They talked about not much at all. Sam too careful to ask if Chuck made up his mind yet, though it was clearly all he wanted to speak about.

The _where_. And when.

Chuck realizes now that he missed an opportunity to talk it out. That talking things out actually works with Sam and that they're no longer alone in the decisions they make.

Literally, the choices that Sam will make while he's in a motel room in New Jersey, each move he makes and shot he fires, now lives within Chuck.

Every time Chuck doesn't drive to the corner store and pick up beer, that impacts how Sam's week will go.

And each time they put themselves in harm's way, alone, they're changing how the other person's life operates. Whether they'll spend time, when they next see each other, sweeping up a mess or crawling toward one another on the sun-warmed sheets of the bed.

That's what this is, now.

So in this moment, he knows he made the wrong choice.

When he climbed onto Sam's lap the first time, he tied himself there, in a way. And he doesn't want that to change his life some day in the next month or two when he makes the decision on where they'll move in together. He wanted his life to change right then.

He should have fucking acted like it.

He doesn't even want his life to change when Sam gets back, when Dean drops him off again or he shows up in another 'borrowed' car.

Chuck wants to pack and get in the Porsche and drive to the east coast and put his decision in Sam's hands like a just-hatched bird. Watch his eyes go wide and soft and pleased and for him to _tell_ Chuck that it's okay he's suddenly really hot for the idea of never being separated again.

He wants to hear that Sam feels the same way.

However.

Though Sam asked for him to make the decision-- though Sam asked to move in with him, it does not follow that he intends to tote Chuck along on every hunt. Chuck didn't ask. He didn't take that golden opportunity to talk. To wonder aloud, _Are you gonna hang me up in that bunker like one of the artifacts?_ Is he gonna be down there in the dark on phone duty?

He doesn't know if he can pick up the gun, yet.

He isn't a full-blown hunter. Maybe never will be. He has the technical know-how but the few times he's had to put it into practice--

Well.

He's got a 50% win/loss record:  
He handled the vampire in Minnesota.  
He didn't handle Sandalphon.

But if he's got the knowledge, and because of the visions his hands have the practice, it's basically irresponsible of him to wave Sam off at the door without at least offering to help the Winchesters.

Also. In a completely self-serving way, it would help Chuck.  
Help him not to have to part from Sam so damn often.

He sees a blur in his vision. A fingerprint on his glasses from adjusting them on his face.

Who, exactly, is he fucking kidding right now?

If demons and monsters can throw Dean and Sam around, big as they are, Chuck will snap like a twig.

He scrubs the spot out of his glasses with his shirt. Checks his phone.

Gives up and dials.

"Hey," Sam answers, soft and raw. Chuck is so sure he hears an unspoken endearment on the end of it he's raging to know what the fuck it was gonna be.

"Hey, babe," he says, just to crawl on top of this conversation. "Swwwetie. Hottie," all of it comes out sounding smarmy as hell.

He doesn't even get a laugh out of it.

"Um. You okay?"

"Oh, right," he tosses a hand up, "Because if I act like a cheeseball I'm probably drunk."

Sam takes a deep breath and it crackles over the line, "Okay. First off? Didn't say that."

Chuck grumbles a bunch of vowels but doesn't actually respond.

"Second, hold on a sec."

There are office sounds, beeping and phone calls and someone hollering, "Cathy, where did you file the-"

"Here to see Doctor Wagner--?" Sam's voice is muffled and so are the directions he gets.

"Okay. You there?" Sam's walking away from the noise.

"You're busy."

"I'm not hanging up on you."

Chuck's got a line of shame boiling down his center that feels like heartburn. He pushes his glasses to the top of his head and rubs at his eyes. "I wasn't actually calling for anything. You should go do hunter stuff."

"I can look at a dead body and talk at the same time, I've been told I'm a pretty smart guy."

"The smartest," Chuck answers automatically, resting his head in his hand. "I was seriously not calling for anything."

"I'm seriously not hanging up because I _want_ to talk to you. -- Hi, here for Doctor W-- thanks," he comes back, "So, hi, honey, how was your day?"

"Oh, god," Chuck says. Sheer panic. "Don't do that, that will freak me _right_ out."

"You don't say? It sounds like you've been busy, sweetie."

"Yeah, I'd make a crack about being a kept man, but my job actually makes money and yours doesn't, so."

"Baby, everyone knows you pay the bills in this family."

"Like the whole entire family. And are you playing pet-name chicken with me right now?"

"You know it, hot stuff."

"You say such sweet things but you're just buttering me up because I know you won't be home for dinner."

"Yeah," Sam says, sad, "You know they always keep me late doing paperwork, babe. Hey, hold on a sec? Agent Armstrong, thanks for seeing me. I'm here to see the second body from yesterday's attack?"

Sam says "thanks" a few more times before the voices leave completely and a door shuts.

"Let's never do that again, that was a nightmare."

But Sam persists. "I wish I could be home tonight, sweetheart, but it looks like we've got a few more days in town."

"Suppose I'll just have to entertain myself then. Whatever shall I do with my time? Oh, maybe there's a game on. Or maybe there are 16 games on and I'm supposed to watch half of them," Chuck gripes.

"Did you try the dressing I left on the top shelf?"

"Are you looking at a dead body and asking if I've prepared myself a salad since you've been gone?"

"I'm asking when the last time you ate was."

"This is hallucinogenic."

"This is a _question_ you're suddenly avoiding?" Sam prompts, being serious at last.

"Uh." Shit. He looks around his laptop, around the kitchen table. The cold dregs of coffee and nothing else. "I um."

"Breakfast," Sam answers for himself. "The last time you ate was breakfast."

Chuck is still checking his surroundings. He glances at the sink. Only yesterday's dishes.

"Busted," Sam says to the silence, satisfied.

_Mental image of him standing tall in his black suit, snapping a rubber glove on and prodding at the wounds in a bloated corpse, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder._

"Chuck?" Sam snaps him out of it.

"Yeah. I'm getting the. The stupid, um. I'm. There's the frozen burritos."

"It takes two minutes to zap one of those. I'll call you back in three."

"I'll be chewing."

"This guy might actually be, too, so I'm gonna need my hands free for that."

"Oh! Bye," he hangs up.

He didn't realize how often he had liquid lunch until Sam got him sober. Now he's always got food in the fridge, instead of cans, and Amy's products in the freezer where the vodka used to live.

And the reminders were subtle at first, but in the past half year, over phone calls and visits, Sam has progressed to introducing the topic flat-out. He asks him what he ate and tells him to try one of the things he left in the fridge and half the time he comes around he either brings groceries or bundles Chuck into the car for a dreaded excursion to the local markets.

These burritos are totally bogus, by the way. Sam bought them because they're vegetarian and healthy and whatever. Chuck refuses to blow money on products without actual substance. So, he hates to admit they're fast and filling and get the job done.

Sam calls back when he's digging in.

"False alarm. I'm just not a fan of how the muggles insist on reattaching heads for funerals."

".... Vamps can't come back if you do that, though?"

"Nah, but I had to make sure."

"There's food in my mouth so please don't elaborate."

"Perfect!" Sam commends, "So, you shut up and eat and let me talk."

Oh lord, he _planned this_.

Sam clears his throat. "Actually, hold on, let me make it out of the morgue before I say this," the sounds of walking and of nurses telling him to have a nice day.

"So," he restarts, "I love you."

"But...?" Chuck prompts, nearly unable to swallow, ready and willing to panic at a moment's notice.

"I didn't say there'd be an exception to that statement."

Chuck chews on that for a moment.

"I love you, too."

"Thank you," there's a smile in his voice. "Um. I wanna talk about that."

"Ah. The talking part I didn't let you do."

"Yeah. So I just feel like I need to tell you some stuff."

"Did you and Becky actually have a _child_ I don't know about?"

Sam blows out a breath. "No."

"I'm... sorry," Chuck shakes his head at himself, "Sorry, that was tasteless."

"Chuck. It's no big deal. But. There's some other stuff that _is_ a big deal."

Chuck gives him a minute to ease into it... then decides not to.

"Sam?"

"I'm just trying to figure out how to say this."

"Sam, I think I know everything I need to know."

"I just- no. Wait. Okay, so don't think I'm still acting when I say this, alright?"

Sam waits but Chuck suddenly doesn't think it's best to make promises.

"Chuck. Sweetheart, I love you. And I'm maybe... perving out on getting to say that. It's so _foreign_ , you know? It's so everyday and normal and it's not what I usually get to say. And that's not to say that I wanna be everyday and normal with you, especially if you don't want that. But I wanna be able to say at least some of that stuff to you. And I wanna be able to promise you I'll be home for dinner. And."

He stops.

"You wanna have a single place to come home to after the hunt," Chuck fills in the blank himself.

Sam doesn't say anything for a while. "Keep eating, I'm not done fucking this up yet," he admits, resigned. Sounds echoing like he's clomping across a wet parking lot.

Chuck sets the burrito aside and shakes his fingers off. "You're not. Fucking up, I mean. Sam, I already get all this about you. And if anything the prophecy stuff is a little more creepy than you wanting to call me... you know. That."

"Yeah," Sam understands. "But not entirely creepy. Considering it's us, right? I know you didn't ask to know all this stuff."

"Exactly. And it's not weird that we can't figure out the moving-in part. I mean, you just recently even came in to the concept of having a home base and then we have the whole Dean thing."

"The whole Dean thing," Sam repeats miserably, as if Chuck were about to unload on him about something that needed an explanation.

"I don't think you get that I understand what's between you and your brother. Sam, I have it in my head, lifetimes of it, I have access to it all. I get it. Monsters are different every day for you, but what you two are is written in stone. I don't need you to _want to_ apologize for needing to _stay_ at the same time you want to _go_."

"Are you fucking kidding me?! _There it is_. You're _published_ and not even you could make a _sentence_ about my awful life make sense!"

"But it does make sense when I don't have to dumb it down to a fourth-grade reading level. Look, your life is all twisted up and turned around and technically you've got a hundred plus years extra jammed in there somewhere from one time warp or another. Don't you get that things don't have to be linear for you? You can have one normal thing and get stuck in Purgatory the very same day. You put your pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us. Then you put three knives and a gun in there."

"It's just two knives today," he objects, just because he's a younger brother.

Chuck rolls his eyes. "The third is in your jacket."

Sam is silent. Because it's true.

"Speaking of. Did you tell Dean yet?"

"I don't want to have that conversation. He can get there when he gets there. When he. Grows up. Or he's sober for more than 12 hours at a time. Or whatever."

Chuck twigs to something. Something he'd only suspected.

"You said something about it to him before, didn't you? Before the vamp in Minnesota."

He hears Sam settle into his car without a word.

"I understand," Chuck says. And he does. Dean told Chuck about Becky because Sam told Dean about Chuck. Maybe mentioned that he liked Chuck and then asked for him when he'd been wounded. That's why Dean was so dismissive of Chuck, laughing at him in Winona.

Thus, Dean's privileges have been temporarily revoked because his kneejerk response to _feelings_ is to remind people that _feelings suck_.

If it were the old Dean, this would be easier. Stable ground is harder to find with him, present-day. Chuck had expected that he'd only grow to trust in his brother. That the days leading up to Sam's "Yes" to Lucifer were not just some forgettable anomaly. Dean, of all people, should know what Sam is capable of and have trust in him.

But while the Mark of Cain has been removed, it seems the damage has been done. Whatever self-loathing and general despair made Dean take the Mark in the first place is likely to blame. He'll be a great brother one minute and a dickbag the next, without really changing demeanor. He slips into it like-

God. Like John. With that same coldness that John Winchester once thought marked his 'care' for his family. Only with that maniacal, Dean Winchester edge added for his own amusement. And Chuck had always kind of mistaken Dean's drinking for a little too much of his own influence on the story. But Dean really always did rely heavily on insobriety to get him through the horrors of his reality.

So he may be free of the Mark of Cain. He may still have a home, have his brother, have Cas, but that only returned him to _before_.

It leaves Sam rolling his eyes at Dean's too-typical behavior.  
Cas simply supportive, always ready to barrel forward at Dean's side.  
Honestly, it's got Chuck worried.

He didn't expect Dean to grow and change in leaps and bounds. But he kind of expected him to _want_ to change at least a little. Isn't he tired of feeling like shit all the time?

"I think he mostly gets it," Sam dismisses. "And I don't want him to have the opportunity to mess with you again. I just don't discuss it with him. So, if anything, he won't be pissed at _you_ for being with me, he'll be miffed I didn't say anything official."

"Because I care if he's pissed at _me_ ," Chuck scoffs. "It's you I need him to look after. And he will. At his own expense. And I need him not to get his shit wrecked so _you_ aren't miserable. You starting to see the cyclical patterns here?"

"Right. I get it. Not linear."

"All over the place," Chuck gestures wildly for his own benefit. "So I'm saying there's nothing you need to explain to me."

"There's still stuff, though. Stuff from Stull to now, to the demons in the diner, that I haven't even gotten around to telling you yet."

"Sam." Chuck scrubs a hand down his face and gets up from the table with his stupid vegan burrito. He drops it, the paper plate a slap on the coffee table, and he sits on the carpet in front of the couch, tight into himself. He tries not to think about it, to come up with something naturally, but labels don't come out. The weird endearments don't fit. It ends up being:

"Sammy. I want to hear everything. I do. I want you to tell me whatever you _seriously_ think I need to know. But could you just-- for me? Could you just pretend like you're gonna live long enough to tell me everything eventually? There's nothing to confess. I don't need you to list off everything before I agree to keep my shirts in your closet. There isn't anything left for you to own up to that'll take this fishhook out of my fucking heart. I wasn't, like. Prepared. I didn't think this would happen I just thought we could try and be friends and get something out of it and, yeah, I pretty much always wanted to jump you, but you decided you love me and I'm not giving it back," he warns. "You'll have to fight me for it."

"Wouldn't wanna go up against you on that one," Sam says, awed and quiet. Says like he's in love.

"God, could you just stop it, you're too far away for me to handle all this earnestness alone," he goes back to his food.

"Please eat the fucking burrito," Sam says, still blissing.

"Oy amm, fu'kr," Chuck says with his mouth full.

"I'm so sorry I can't be there."

Chuck clears his throat. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you I wanted to come."

"You do? You did?"

"Hey, I'm pathetically in love with you over here, cut me some slack," he eats some more while Sam just listens. Sam is pathetically in love, too, so just Chuck breathing and chewing down the line is good enough for him for a couple minutes.

"Got a text from Dean. We have to help Cas and Charlie after this," he sighs. "Won't be able to swing by until we leave the coast."

"Well," Chuck clears his throat, "when you do. When you are finally in town, maybe you should live here for a month. And you can- we can see how it works. Does that sound do-able?"

"You sound do-able," Sam says, voice rolling deep.

"Can I finish my food _before_ we talk dirty?"

"Oh, shit! _We can have phone sex!_ "

That only didn't occur to Chuck before because phones give him anxiety when it's anybody but Sam on the other end. Also, "You just touched a dead guy."

"I was wearing gloves."

"Are you really gonna touch yourself with your nearly-touched-a-dead-guy hands?"

"I didn't touch the dead guy," Sam insists. "These are the hands I touched _you_ with," he reminds him. "You came in my hand and I can still hear the way you moaned for it."

Yeah, he's dropping the burrito again.  
They're silent on the line.

"Finish up. I'm gonna call you right back, okay?"

"Um. Okay."

"Chuck? Go lay down and wait for me to call."

Holy shit. Holy fuck. "O-okay."

"Hey? I love you."

"Okay. I mean, I love you. Too. Also. As well."

"Five minutes, okay? Bye."

"Yeah."

Chuck puts the phone down and shrugs to himself. Shakes his head at himself.

Shakes his head at the sky. At the presence above that's there, whether he gives a shit about its careless, backstabbing ass or not.

Supposedly it claims credit for dropping this wonderful thing on him and he's on his carpet eating a goddamn veggie burrito in his cheap apartment and he's actually planning to beat off with his-

With Sam. On the phone.

Fuck this, you know? He should have just gone. Invite or no, this strangeness is Winchester territory and he's a resident, now. He should accept that. Things are just going to get weirder. He should have gone with.

He flops into bed in just his shorts a while later as the phone is ringing.

"All energy flows according to the whims of the Great Magnet. What a fool I was to defy him," he quotes in greeting.

"No," Sam says. "Absolutely not. It's our business to defy him."

"Because we're defiant fools," Chuck concludes.

"Well, we're not dead yet. I'd say we do it pretty well," Sam considers. "Too weird to live. Too rare to die."

Amen. Chuck considers that for only one more moment.

"Sam?"

"Yeah," he sounds fond which is ridiculous and so very Sam Winchester.

"You didn't ask and I didn't say anything. We were a little busy at the time. But I just want you to know that your cock really is spectacular."

"Oh."

"It was heavy against me and I liked it and the next time you're here, you're gonna press it into me," Chuck grinds the heel of his hand against the front of his boxers. "Make me all open and wet and ready for you and you're gonna push in and I'm gonna want you to stay forever."

"Fuck."

"Tell me how you're gonna do it."

A breath gusts down the line. Some faint noise in the background and not much else. "Chuck."

"I think you pulled off the highway to an empty lot. Killed the lights and parked toward the back. I think you're buzzing a little, Sam. I think you wish I was there so I could climb out of the passenger seat and right into your lap."

" _Yes_ ," and there's a whole California mountain range of tremors in one word.

"Tell me where we are right now," Chuck pushes, because he wasn't expecting to do most the work -- it was Sam's idea, after all -- but he's damn well gonna make it good for him. If he won't see him for _weeks?_ Then this is going to happen right now. And it will happen again, as necessary. Practice makes perfect.

"There's this," Sam swallows audibly, "this shell of a farmhouse, all overgrown. I parked behind it and there's nothing ahead of us but a field."

"No moon out tonight," Chuck says.

"No. It's dark. I-"

Maybe Sam isn't ready to run with their imaginary scenario. Chuck eases him into it.

"It's too dark for you to see me until I'm leaning over you, close."

"Your legs," Sam is remembering. "You're straddling me. You want to kiss."

"I do that sometimes, yeah. Just climb you like a tree and plant myself on your lap and taste your mouth."

Deep breath from Sam. Inhale. Exhale.  
"God, I wanna kiss you right now," he says it like he says _Please?_ , like when he's begging for it to be given to him.

"I wanna kiss you, too," Chuck says, quiet. "We're gonna do that a lot. So much we get tired of it."

Sam laughs, thin. "Not gonna happen. I need you here. I need that over and over again."

"It's real," Chuck is quick to assure him. "It's real like the way you're gonna open your fly and touch yourself for me. Right now. Because I want to right now and you have to help me."

"I want you in front of me. I want you to be here."

"I want to be there, too. I'm across your lap and you're heavy in our hands. Hot and thick and heavy, Sam."

"I want your cock, too," it breaks out of him like a warning. "I want you all slick and hard. I liked the color of it, the flush of your skin when you were hard for me. For _me_. And letting me taste you."

That's it right there. Chuck kicks out of the boxers and loses them like he's never ever gonna need them again anyway.

"Sam-"

"I want my hand around the both of us again. Tell me you're there, too."

"I donno," Chuck says, aiming to sound sad. "My hand's not as big as yours. It doesn't feel the same."

" _Fuck_ ," Sam hisses. "Put me on speaker. Switch to speaker right now."

Chuck does it quick and drops the phone on the pillow.

"Both hands," Sam orders. "Right now. You and me."

"Fuck," Chuck finds himself echoing.

"I love how I had to hold your hips down," Sam gasps. "I love _you_. I'm so fucking gone on you."

Chuck can't do anything but moan, obeying as best as he can, one hand on his dick, the other wandering.

For minutes at a time, they're nothing but gasping and choked off words in the dark. The thick sound of breath from Sam's wet mouth. "Please kiss me," Chuck finds himself chanting, can't help himself. "God, I want your mouth."

"I want you. Fuck. So hard for you. Gonna come for you," Sam's voice getting slightly high, an intense, hot, wet flesh sound somewhere filtering through the speaker, just a little.

"When you open me up next time," Chuck says, "when you open me up and I'm in your lap, on your cock," he doesn't have to say more than that. The far-away cries Sam gives with the orgasm punching out of him.

" _Shit_ ," Sam says, "I fucking _swear_. I need to touch you. I _have to_ touch you. You're too far," he gasps.

Chuck shakes his head, "Close, though. Close to you right now, pressed against you. And close to coming for you, Sam, I need it. You have to-," breath heaving, words can't keep up with him.

Luckily, Sam's got his number.

"I'd finish you off, sweetheart. You wouldn't have to do a thing," it sounds low and sincere, a promise. "I'd lift you up on my cock and set you down. Lay you back and fuck you. You only have to hang on, I'm gonna do this for us."

"S--" Just three letters and Chuck can't even finish the word.

"Are you gonna come while you're riding me? Chuck? Do you want it harder?"

Harder. Unbelievable. Like he can't imagine Sam jackhammering into him right now, as is. Every muscle shining with sweat, running his body to the limit just for Chuck. Just for Chuck to come on his cock.

The shout he gives is completely mangled, no actual words, only release. Riding it out on his palm, head rolling back, sound dimming out.

It's like hearing through a fishtank for a solid three minutes afterward, before his ears come back. Sam is just there. On the other end of the phone for him. Quiet except for deep breaths, small noises.

"You there?" Sam asks eventually.

"Yeah."

"You good?"

"Better than," liquid and tired and wrung out. But wonderful.

"You're really fucking good at that. A writer. I don't know why I didn't expect that."

"I've only been fantasizing about you for like a decade. Might have something to do with it."

Sam moans. "Okay. Okay," his voice is strained, "I can't do that right now, so. Tone it down."

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

"The first chance you get?"

"Yeah. I can't- I have to get to you. This is ridiculous."

"I could drive out there."

Sam's careful with that. "You could. Only if you want to." He sighs. "I think I'm in love with you."

"I think you are, too. It's appreciated but you might not have the best taste."

"Watch yourself. That's my guy you're talking about."

See, it would be embarrassing if he were blinking back post-orgasm tears in real life, so it's a good thing this is over the phone.

"We are soppy, romantic shits."

«»

Cas calls a day later. About his and Charlie's hunt.

"You never mentioned in the books how often siren venom is readministered."

Chuck's just glad Cas has stopped calling them 'gospels'. "Nobody really knows. It might flush out of the system in a little over a day the first time, but normally it works so well the victim is basically standing in line for a re-up. Each time it happens again, they need it less and less. That's what Bobby found in the research, anyway."

He hears Cas slam something shut. "Thank you. This was proving utterly fruitless."

Chuck didn't know he'd recall so much in an instant, to be honest. "Not a problem. Is your partner in crime missing?"

"No, she's safe. She's doing the... talking to people."

"Ah. Thank fuck for extroverts."

"Um. I suppose. May I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Did Sam tell you that he's confided in me about your relationship?"

"Oh. No. No he didn't." Though. You know. It makes a kind of sense. Sam and Cas have grown pretty tight.

"I'm serving as a sort of filter between the situation and Dean. He's struggling, somewhat with...," Cas takes a deep breath, "with things not turning out how he'd always assumed. And it's not that I fear for-" Cas pauses a moment. "I'd appreciate it if-"

Chuck thinks he gets it. "Cas, we weren't trying to make fun of you two. It's just that Dean doesn't have to act like it's not happening. If he can't be comfortable with this around his own family, he's injecting this completely unnecessary absurdity into it and, frankly? I don't think you deserve to be hidden away for the sake of his _image_."

Cas's silence is somehow frosty, even through the phone. "I think I'll decide if I'm comfortable with that or not, thank you. If it even becomes relevant."

Chuck sighs and rises from the couch. This day requires more coffee. "I know what he's doing, Cas. I know it better than most. It's not something he's doing to be shitty. You know. Until he is."

"I hadn't heard the story about Becky. If I had known, I would have-"

"Now, see, that one's for _me_ to decide, thank you," Chuck fires back.

"All the same," Cas says after a pause, "I told Sam I'd get you for him. You were all he wanted when he couldn't speak. He trusted you. And he still feels like he twisted that trust."

Yeah. Chuck's starting to see that.

"Do you think I'd survive?" Chuck wonders aloud. "If I kept going on the road with you guys. If I-- well. If I just tried to help out. Or I'd probably be in the way, right?"

He knows that Castiel isn't speaking because he's considering it seriously. Eventually he says, "You may feel like it, because of all you've seen? But you're not actually practiced at fighting. However. You beheaded a vampire of considerable age and skill with a few well-placed shots and a six-inch blade. You did it in defense of Sam, when he couldn't do it for himself. You went to Minnesota to speak for Sam when he couldn't do it for himself. You made a friend out of yourself when Sam couldn't find one on his own. If these boys have taught me anything, I now know that we are deadly capable of bringing ruin down upon others at the merest hint of a threat. When we love those being threatened."

Chuck is zoned out over the kitchen counter. "That's not the healthiest thing in the world," he observes.

"Yet... how healthy would it be for our sanity if we couldn't?" Castiel seems to muse.

After Cold Oak, Chuck didn't put even a fifth of Dean's mourning over Sam's body into the books. It still gives him goddamn chills to remember it. The uncontrollable rage, the soul-deep resignation. The bleakest sadness, the most profound depressive episode Chuck's ever experienced over something he thought, at the time, was just a really unfair nightmare.

"Furthermore, how healthy would it be for this world to live without them?" Cas has turned inward just slightly, Chuck can tell.

"The world would be flat-out fucked."

«»

 **The Return of the Revenge of the Corner of the Kitchen Table** , Chuck texts to Sam.

**:( :( :(**  
**poor baby**

**For various reasons I'm going to have to ask u not to use that one.**  
**Anyway it was a good legal hit. There's a nice big black n blue mark on my ass.**

**POOR POOR BOOTY**  
**Do I have permission to "here's johnny" that damn thing yet?**

**It came with the apartment so no I think I have to leave it in one piece.**

**I'm gonna short-leg it anyway so the owner has to throw it out.**

**My hero.**

**For various reasons I'm going to have to ask you not to use that one.**

**My actual literal hero of 24+ novels.**

**I forget that u get to do that.**

**My actual literal hero of the actual world.**  
**My actual literal champion of humanity.**  
**My actual literal fave.**

Sam calls as he's composing the next one.

"Your hair looks great today," Chuck answers.

".... You haven't... even seen me recently?"

"We need to face facts, here: your hair looks great every day."

"Well, I mean, thanks, bu-"

"I like your hands. They're big. They're not soft, they mean business. I like the way they look wrapped around a gun and it pretty much turns me on just thinking about them."

"Uh. Chu-"

"And your shoulders are spectacular. I wish you didn't feel like they were made for carrying the entire planet, but they're wide and safe. I like that."

Sam doesn't say anything.

"I have no idea how you read all those books, all those zillions and zillions of books. I mean, I used to think I read a lot, but now I really just read blogs and graphic novels. You do serious, academic reading every day and you retain it! It's baffling. You put it into use in the real world. You use it to save lives! Who the fuck uses books to save lives? Sam fucking Winchester."

"You done?"

"You have this variety of tastes and experiences. You're as worldly a man as someone who has actually had the opportunity to leave the country. Well, I mean, of course you've been to all the other _realms_ by now, which are, technically, outside of the country, but your knowledge spans histories and cultures and it's-"

"OKAY. Chuck. Wow."

"Hi," Chuck folds forward around a couch pillow. "I love you."

"Oh, goddamnit."

"I know, right? My actual, literal bestie."

"Oh my god."

"My actual, literal significant other."

"Significant other," Sam repeats, sounding devastated.

"Actual, literal but not actually in my house and it's kinda getting on my nerves?"

" _Chuck_ ," Sam says, sadly.

"I'm almost out of groceries," Chuck laments. "I'm going to have to go out into that world without you and your mental math to tell me how much I can afford. I'm going to buy trash that I will stuff down my gullet because you're not here to take care of me."

"Alright, you have to stop right this fucking instant because you're breaking my heart. Over _groceries_. You are perfectly capable of buying sensible groceries, I shouldn't feel this bad."

"No!" Chuck bolts upright, "No! You shouldn't feel bad at all. I just wanted you to know."

"That I've _abandoned_ you and you're _suffering?_ Thanks for the gentle reminder."

"NO. No." Chuck slumps again. "I keep feeling your hand on my hip. Because I hit the table again. And normally when I do that, you're here to cover it with your hand and make it feel better. And your gigantic hands are nowhere to be found. And I'm completely fucking lonely."

"Holy shit," Sam whispers.

"I don't deserve you. Even a full thousand miles away I don't deserve to even be whining to you on the phone but you're still on the line and I... fuck, Sam. I donno. I kinda wanna crawl into bed and have you sing me to sleep. I'm exhausted of this."

"I can't even sing for you," Sam sounds lost, "I can't even sing."

Chuck rolls his eyes. "You can when you try. I've heard it. Not for real. But I've heard it. Anyway, I don't know how a stupid text message even turned into this. Hi. I love you."

"Fuck. I am so goddamn-"

"You're perfect. So amazing. And if anybody says otherwise, including you, I will take... serious issue with that. There may even be a strongly-worded letter."

Sam laughs, but it's weak. "Could you do something for me?"

"Anything. Anything within my reach is fuckin' yours."

"Talk to me until you fall asleep. If I don't hear every ridiculous goddamn thing you have to say I might drop dead. I can't believe I went so long without this in my life."

Chuck tosses the pillow and stands up. "Finally, something I can GIVE TO YOU."

"I know you stay up writing sometimes. I could call back? If you-"

"No. Let's get down to brass tacks," Chuck stretches and rolls his neck for a moment. "Okay. I'm limber. I'm headed towards the bedroom. This is thrilling for you."

"So thrilling."

"My prophet senses are tingling. I suspect you're getting ready to brush your teeth."

"Wait, no creepy stuff."

"I apologize."

"I bought one of these Tom's of Maine toothpastes."

"You goddamn hippie."

"Whatever, you brush RELIGIOUSLY before bed."

"It comes from being a drunk. You can't let that shit sit in your teeth and turn to sugar all night, it'll rot your jaw out."

"At least you were a responsible alcoholic."

"I still am an alcoholic," he reminds Sam, "I just don't drink anymore. Do you know why?"

"I bullied you into it."

"Nope. You offered to help me sweat it out. Do you remember that? I feel a lot more comfortable telling you, now, that I was hoping you meant to fuck it out of me."

"Wah- wait. Wait. If we're doing the sexy talk, I have to finish brushing first."

"THE sexy talk? Okay, Borat. Let's just be responsible together for a minute here and brush our teeth in silence."

So they do.

"This is incredible. That was so normal I think picket fences just sprouted on the lawn outside."

"No sex stuff?" Sam asks.

"I thought you just wanted to fall asleep to the dulcet tones of my high-pitched anxiety."

"No, I plan to be here for the entirety of the forthcoming tirade, you're the one who's gonna fall asleep first."

"Good call. I didn't take a nap today, I have no doubt I'll fall asleep mid-sentence."

"I can't wait. Tuck yourself in. Sleep on my side."

"How fucking great is that? There's a 'Sam's side' of the bed."

"Yeah, I thought it was pretty cool that you had a California king. An extra four inches of pure glory. I never wake up at your place with my toes hanging off the end of the mattress," he sounds wistful.

"Four inches of pure glory," Chuck repeats. "That's what they called me in high school."

Sam disappears for about three minutes, howling.

Chuck just wishes he always had a reason to laugh that much.

"Come back to bed," Chuck whines after a while.

"I'm here, I'm here. You're fucking amazing."

Chuck burritos himself in the covers. "So, hey, uh, beautiful."

"Seriously. Stop."

"No, this is what you signed up for. Let me count the ways. Hey, can you do something for me?"

"I donno. Sure."

"We all know Dean is not-so-secretly a hugger while I am _exclusively_ a secret hugger. So I need you to hug your brother for me."

Sam sounds very lost when he asks, "Why?"

"Sam. I know him. I know him so much that I _like him_ , which I think we can agree is hard to do in real life. And I think Cas was trying to broadcast to me that he's still really fucked up about the Minnesota thing. I mean, he's fucked up in general, and I don't know what he needs, exactly, to start getting it back together. And what he did was not okay, but he messed up and he learned something. We have to let him off the hook. But I think he's a lot more likely to give me a manly shove or shrug it off or something. And he needs to hear that you still love him, even if he's not the main character in your life right now. He needs not to feel like 'growth' equals 'abandonment.'"

Sam is quiet.

"We have no intention of abandoning him. Or Cas," Chuck insists. "Your family doesn't fragment very well. But you're gonna be your own main character in this... side-story thing of ours. The only way Dean is gonna take cues from us and stop benching Cas is by learning that it seriously does work okay this way."

"Benching?"

"Yeah, I was wrong, they're not actually a fulltime thing yet."

" _How in hell_ do you know this??"

Chuck considers. "Something Cas said. Plus this kind of echo thing. I don't know how to explain it."

"Echo?"

"This image," Chuck closes his eyes. "Dean says 'Don't ever change' and the way Cas looked at him. I don't know how to explain it. Dean has entered the final 'I'm fully corrupting an angel' phase, though, so it won't be long."

"It's already been forever," Sam gripes.

Chuck shrugs. "Cas is patient. Anyway, I don't wanna gossip about them. I just want you to do that. Dean will only think I'm up to shit if I say anything directly at this point. He's pretty great. He's just confused right now."

"And completely opposed to change," Sam grumbles.

" _Scared_ of change. He's not scared of anything else, so you gotta give him the one thing."

"I donno, Chuck. I'll think about it. We've been doing separate rooms. He's been giving me these looks when I so much as text you but, wow, when Cas calls-- WAITAMINUTE WAITAMINUTE," Sam suddenly shouts. "You mean. To tell me. That. I. Am getting laid. And Dean's not??"

"Damn skippy."

Sam considers this. "Minor victory in the sibling war. I'll take it."

"Separate beds," Chuck notes. "If Dean stops getting a double when he rooms with Cas, you can't laugh at him anymore."

"But I can laugh at his _face_ forever."

Chuck sighs. So it goes.

"You just don't understand how important it feels to one-up a big brother," Sam says to his sigh.

"Yeah. It's not like I was in your heads at all. And me? I just popped out of the ground fully-formed, so you don't suppose I could possibly know anything about siblings."

Sam goes quiet again before whispering, "Shit. Oh, shit. I'm such a fuck. I haven't even _asked_. I don't even know anything about your _parents_. I never even asked. This is terrible. I'm a horrible significant other."

"Dear Winchester and Winchester Hunting, Incorporated," Chuck begins to compose, "I am a dissatisfied customer. Your superstar employee 'Sam' started talking shit about my partner again-"

"Oh, god, not _partner_. I got demoted," Sam laments.

"- and we demand an apology and a refund and like a gift card or something. I donno. It's a first draft."

"Don't demote me!"

"I didn't. You did. You're lucky I can't take my business elsewhere."

"Chuck," Sam says, suddenly serious. "Don't demote me."

"Okay. If you wanna keep your job as significant other you have to go fucking easier on yourself. Seriously. I'm tired of this shit." Chuck burrows into the covers.

"There's stuff that--" Sam cuts himself off. "Nevermind."

Goddamnit.

"Sam. Monsters beat the shit out of you for a living. I understand feeling down on yourself but you don't get to call my characters assholes. It dismisses their complexity. It overshadows their great hair."

"I'm in so much trouble," Sam sighs. "I don't know how to handle you. I feel like a broke 21-year-old who just won the lottery. I'm going to do something absolutely _stupid_ with my prize."

"Well. Now imagine being told you're worth an irresponsible fortune. Feels pretty good."

"You _are_ pretty good," Sam sounds like a total dope.

"Aw, man. Stop," Chuck whines.

Sam is quiet for a time. Then asks, "Are you sure we can't do the phone sex thing again?"

"Come on. Like I didn't already spend half the day in here thinking about you with my hand on my dick."

"Well, then," Sam hesitates. "Maybe you could, you know, talk me through it?"

Mutual masturbation is one thing, but not participating would make it, basically, writing porn. He doubts his skills when he doesn't have a place in the game.

Also he's kinda tired of not having Sam within reach. "I think. I donno. I think..."

Honestly? He thinks he's a little too _lovesick_ for that right now.

It's so absurd but his stomach twists. The empty side of the bed is so empty. There's no warmth at his back. No one breathing beside him in the dark.

"I think I'm gonna sleep."

"Oh. Sorry, I know you said- but I didn't realize you were that tired. I didn't really mean to keep you."

"NO. NOPE. That's a lie. I just lied. I just. God. I don't know how to say this."

Sam's voice drops low. "You can tell me anything. I don't need the edited version."

He doesn't even have full sentences in his head. "Lemme ask first. Um. I'm not trying to nag on you by any means. Just. Is this. Like between your hunt and Charlie's. Is this a few days more or like a month more? I mean. It doesn't seem like things have been going that easy for you. It just seems like you're gonna be out there. I donno. A long time."

"I. I just really don't know," Sam takes a long moment. "I just. Is it. Um. Is it the... the distance or-"

"It's everything. God, it's everything. I don't know. I should have just gone with you. But I don't need to deal with Dean's judgment if I was there or him ragging on you for me being there. And now that it's just me, I don't have money enough to put that much gas in a fucking _Porsche_. I don't know if I'd-- I just don't know what to do. And it sounds awful. It sounds needy and shit. And I'm sure you'll get tired of this or tired of me from sheer overexposure-"

Sam's laugh has a jagged edge to it. "No. No," he interrupts. "We are not doing that right now. No. Do not even _begin_ to worry about overexposure. I miss you," he stops. To breathe. Heavy and deep. "I miss you. Constantly," he declares. "I've been waiting to miss someone this much. It's great. It's fucking agonizing, but it's great. What's driving _me_ up the wall is that I left so soon. I should have taken you back to the bunker and instead I just threw some wards up and. All I keep thinking is: Sandalphon took you less than 20 hours after I left. What if I don't call? Or can't because something's going on? And what if you don't answer? How long do I wait? I can't even remember what it was that made me turn around in Oklahoma."

Chuck cringes.

He did not intend to make Sam that concerned for him just because he was trying to make less trouble between the brothers. He should have known this wasn't sitting right with Sam when he asked why Chuck wouldn't come with. He shouldn't have given a shit how Dean may have expected the hunt to go.

"This is so bogus," he complains. "Remind me to stop giving a shit what your brother thinks."

"We can remind each other 'til the cows come home. It's not actually gonna change our behavior. Sometimes the world just bends around him."

"Sam-"

"I want you to drive out here. I do. I just _don't_ want you to be broke. I _don't_ want you to put all your writing aside to help with the hunt. And. To be honest. The thing Cas and Charlie are working on? I don't want to expose you to a siren. It can go really bad really quick and the last thing we need," he just doesn't finish the sentence.

Chuck hears it, though.  
The last thing they need at the raw, emotional beginning of this thing between them is to watch each other fall in chemical love with a monster.

"Yeah," he simply agrees.

"As soon as you start driving, anyway, we'll probably get the break we're looking for and you'll have gone a hundred miles for nothing. We'll all wrap up and head back. You know, that's just how it works. You get shit for being patient and you get shit for rushing through."

Chuck mindlessly nods into the phone. But he doesn't feel impatience like he feels sadness.

He's just starting to get really sad.

"So. You got quiet."

"Mm."

"You skipped right over it. Tell me about your folks."

That doesn't really help with the whole 'getting sad' thing.

"I'm not a great son. I don't keep in contact with mom. Dad died about tw- three? Years ago. I got a condolence card from someone who found my address. Emailed my sister to find out and she was like, 'No one knew where to call you.' And I was just. Well. There it is."

"I'm sorry."

Chuck shrugs. "It always felt like I was growing up with roommates. I was in a house fulla people and they were all just. Disconnected from me. I didn't. I mean, not that I didn't _try_. They were all maniacs. I got drunk at thirteen at our SuperBowl party. I had to go to block parties and barbeques all the fucking time. Not that I didn't ever have fun. I guess. I just." Chuck sighs. "Yeah. I didn't have a lot of fun."

"At parties? With all your family there and the whole block?"

Sam doesn't quite understand how these things work. "There's not-- it's not an invitation when your parents organize it. It's an obligation. You have to help haul out the tables and chairs and you don't pack up until the last drunk neighbor leaves. You get sunburned and mosquito-bitten and you smell your creepy aunt for the next ten days because the nasty perfume she wears doesn't wash out of your clothes. I knew everybody, yeah, and I had friends, but. It's a lot of nine-hour sessions of music your parents partied to when they were in high school. And hot dogs. Endlessly hot dogs. I puke if I even smell hot dogs. And. You can come back to football after not caring for a few years. I started covering it for the papers and whatnot after a nice, long hiatus. But your huge, looming fathers and their buddies in the same sweaty, numbered shirts every Sunday, smakin' each other around and complaining about their wives. It's... recycled. And tiring."

"Sounds like a sitcom when you put it that way."

"It's a bunch of people _trying to be_ a sitcom, yeah. Because sitcoms are supposed to be the perfect reflections of life only with cute little hijinks. That makes me puke as much as hot dogs."

"No hot dogs. Noted."

"Thanks."

"How many? I mean, people in your house? You said it was a lot."

"Mom, dad," Chuck lists off, takes a deep breath, "Jenna and Betty, my older sisters. Austin, my brother, he's older. Two younger sisters, Anna and Trish. Grandpa Walter lived with us for a long time. Aunt Josie did for a while. Mom's sister Leah, she moved out of her house, separated from her husband for like two years, so she was in and out for months at a time. Her fucking kids would come over four days a week. Joey, Spence, Maggie, Jill. Our other aunts - dad's sisters - they'd always visit with their husbands and kids. Like a revolving door of extended relatives always coming over."

"Yeah, okay. That sounds like a lot. Holy shit."

"The first time I had a place to myself - college, junior year. I didn't leave for eight days. I missed all my classes and had to get a doctor's note. I'd never been someplace so quiet. It was incredible."

"You weren't--" Sam stops himself. "Okay. I know things aren't the same? And this is gonna sound Winchester as hell. But you just. You don't talk to your brother? Your sisters? Doesn't that... hurt?"

Chuck's laugh is soft and amused. "No. No, it really doesn't. I know. Sorry to break it to you. Some people don't have to have," Chuck takes a breath. Refrains from going for the throat. John Winchester is an ugly shadow and he has to respect him, still. For Sam's sake. "Some people go to college and it's not because they hate where they came from they just. Go to college. And don't want to go back to their little kid room after they've had a taste of booze and limber young biology majors."

Sam is silent for a moment. "Little kid room?" he gets hung up on this, of course.

"It's weird. You go back to your house after you've lived in a dorm or in an apartment with your friends. And-- even for as short as I am. You LOOM over the door handles and counters in your parents' house. You feel taller than everything. You feel like you're gonna break all the delicate suburban knick-knacks with your big, brilliant, know-it-all hands. And the poetry prof introduced you to music that changed your life last month. So you go in your old room at home and you see your shitty posters from the stuff you liked freshman year of high school. And you see how your tastes have changed and you decide you're bigger than you ever were. There's proof all around you. And you just... don't want that anymore. I mean. It happened to me. And kinda Betty, too, or at least she understood what I was talking about."

Sam has to mull this over.

"I think you're learning a lot right now."

"I'm learning that you graduated and I didn't. I'm learning to feel shorter," Sam says.

"Oh. No. That's not- no. There's no real comparison there. We're on completely different footing and totally different scales. You don't get to measure us up that way. On several levels that's unfair to you, and on entire others it's unfair to me. Don't even fuck with it."

"I don't have the paper. The last few credits. I didn't walk across the stage."

"I didn't walk across the stage," Chuck stretches across the bed. "I slept in. I had margaritas for lunch and then I went back to sleep. It was a day."

"Huh."

"You were headed to law school, at least. I got. Ugh."

"What?"

"So embarrassing. I got a _journalism_ degree. And I refused to network. Because that involved talking to people. So I was unhireable. And the rest is history. Well, there's the first few jobs. And. Trying to work in L.A. for five months and thinking I was hot shit. And. Well. Then the headaches started. But mostly, for all that, I stayed inside, anyway. Just writing things to myself."

"How... in the fucking world did I ever even find you, you _hermit?_ " he marvels.

"I wanted waffles. The diner had a sign for waffles out front. So, waffles is how."

"Waffles _are_ how?"

"You didn't even graduate, don't correct my grammar."

"OH. OH OKAY! WOW, ASSHOLE."

"I had to. You left the door wide open," Chuck yawns.

"Oh, _Chuck_ ," Sam drops everything in a second flat. "I can't. I just. You're so alone all the time. How am I supposed to hang up and let you sleep and know I'm gonna leave you alone again?"

"I'll be fine," he yawns again. "If you just," he takes a deep breath. "If you just come back soon. Or if I just have you for a little while. I don't know what else to do right now. Who have we even become?" he wonders aloud. "A great, giant, lone warrior who only ever needed his brother to get by in the world. You've gone all soft over me. And I'm just an ex-employee of a religion I don't even give a shit about. Barely any income. Six stars on my Starbucks card is all I've got to my name."

"Stop _reaching into it_ and _making it_ sound strange, please. I'm just fine with boyfriends."

"Well, that's the first time you've ever used that word," Chuck points out. "It sounds stupid."

"No it... doesn't."

Chuck sends his own judgement down the line though his silence. "Okay."

"Actual, literal boyfriend?" Sam says.

"Nugh."

«»

It's strange.

He gets an email from Betty a few days later. He didn't tell anybody he moved away from Little Rock. That was... several apartments ago. The last time anybody from home checked in on him.

So Betty's in Little Rock, looking to see if he wants to meet for lunch.

It's kind of awkward replying that he hasn't even been in that town for over a year. So he fudges and says he recently moved. And she replies that that's why she got a "return to sender" on the box she sent him.

Just a book. She kept it. No big deal.

She'll email again, eventually. She goes to different states for conferences on organizing after-school programming.

And she just checks in whenever she gets curious.

Betty is the only one who does.

It's not the Winchesters or the Campbells or the Shurleys or even the angels that are anomalies.  
Every family is its own anomaly.

«»

There's laughter when he hits the answer button.

"Hi, Sam."

"Hi-i-i," he responds, still laughing. There's the sound of Dean speaking in the background, a lot of 'what the fuck?' going on and air rushing in the far background, the car window cracked open.

"I think I missed something...?"

"I just read Dean your article on Dock Ellis," Sam laughs, "he's uh. He's still absorbing."

"HOW??" he hears Dean holler in the background.

"That's my favorite baseball story," Chuck says, pleased. "No one had written it up in a while, I thought the fanboys would like it."

Sam's still laughing. "I just wanted you to know. Dean um. Enjoyed the piece."

"Thanks. I'll attempt to write about more drug-fueled adventures in the future. But they don't really play ball like that these days."

"No kidding."

Dean says something in the background.

"Hold on," Sam says.

He must hold the phone up to Dean's ear as he's driving. The wind gets louder and Dean comes on. "Is it true? Is that story fucking _totally_ true?"

"He gave interviews about it. There was a documentary. Lots of people were like, 'oh, I believe it, he was always on something back in the day.'"

"So it's _true_??"

"It's true, yeah."

"A no-hitter on acid and a head full of benzedrine," Dean marvels.

"It gets better, I didn't get to write about the guy who tried to recreate it."

"HOW," Dean demands. "Put this on speaker," he says to Sam.

When Sam says, "Okay," Chuck explains.

"So a guy was writing an article? He decided to recreate Dock Ellis's 1970 no-hitter on this MLB Xbox game. So he put all of Dock's stats in and made himself a player, then dropped two hits of acid and started to play the game _as_ Dock Ellis and _actually_ on LSD."

"What the FUCK," Dean says.

"He went through 49 games trying to get a no-hitter and completely failed. The furthest he got was something like four-and-a-half innings. Then he had to stop to, I guess, talk to his garden or whatever."

"That is a stroke of fucking genius," Dean states. "I don't care if it didn't work. That's amazing."

"Anyway, the 70's were great for baseball. Lots of great books on it. 10-cent beer nights and Disco Demolition Night and post-game wet t-shirt contests. So epic."

"Holy shit." Chuck can imagine Dean shaking his head and pushing the phone away. "Get this out of my face, I gotta drive. That shit is incredible."

"I'll send you some YouTube links, you'll lose your mind," he says before Sam takes it off speaker.

"YES," Dean says in the background.

"I think you just picked up a new reader."

"Thanks for that, actually. Dean and I do share an interest in illicit substances and baseball."

"No problem," and Sam doesn't tack 'sweetheart' onto the end because it will fuck up the good mood between him and Dean. Chuck gets it.

He also gets that he can say whatever he wants on his end, now, and Sam won't be able to do anything about it.

"So, you gonna be back at the motel soon? You want me to just, you know, strip and wait for you to call?"

"Uh," Sam laughs again, but this time it's nervous. Chuck can hear him move the phone to his other ear. "Um. No. We're heading out on the case right now. We need the daylight. Hopefully we're gonna catch a nest off-guard."

"Oh. Bummer. I guess I'll just have to give you a play-by-play right here and now," he laughs at him.

"You little shit. I'm hanging up."

"Your loss. You change your mind, call me later, okay?"

"Um. 10-4. Got it."

"Seriously, though. Call me back, I don't care how late."

"Yeah. Sure," Sam lets his voice go a little soft.

"Try and hide how hard your big, dumb face is blushing when I tell you you're the best kisser alive and you've got a really firm ass and I'm so in love with you." He maybe didn't mean for that last part to sound so soppy but it'll have the desired effect.

Sam clears his throat. "Ditto. I'll um. I'll call you. Um. Back."

"Promise? Tonight?"

"Yep."

"Okay. I'll stop fucking with you. You can hang up, actual, literal dreamboat. Actual, literal cuddling addict. Actual, literal signifi-"

"Yeah. Talk to you later," Sam's voice is breezy but strained. He hangs up on Chuck laughing.

Chuck pays for it that evening when Sam attempts to long-distance drown him in praise.

"I'm just gonna have to be near you from now on so you can't pull that shit," Sam says, eventually.

And that sounds like a great idea.

«»

He's finally getting the dents out of the front fender, from when the vamp ran him and Sam off the road, because it was looking about to fall off. He's seated in the lobby, waiting for them to process his paperwork and there's one other person there. A woman, around his age. There's a picture of her kid on her iPhone screen. The line where her wedding ring sat, probably months ago, is still not quite the same color as the rest of her tanned skin. She's getting the windows of her car tinted.

 _The View_ is on the junky little television in the corner. Chuck loathes this goddamn show.

They wander into a conversation about the daytime TV they can and cannot stand. Mutual disgust is a great icebreaker.

"It's more than a little crazy that we're getting nostalgic for Oprah," Chuck notes.

She laughs, deep and beautiful. "Especially considering I wouldn't tell people I watched her, wouldn't act like I was taking her advice, and would totally pretend to shun her. But I knew the whole celebrity lineup every week. I recorded it if I had to be out of the house."

"She was like a friend. I got a lot of fake culture from her. It was so fake enlightening."

"Who are these people, anyway?" she gestures at the television. "That one, she was on _Rosanne_ for five minutes a week in the 90s and I need her advice on summer looks?"

"Exactly. And Oprah, she was just _steeped_ in knowledge. She just let all the experts wash over us. She gave people cars and I was, like, so happy for them."

"Oh no," she says with a mock-frowning smile. "We sound so old."

"We do? I guess we do."

"Well, I feel old. I came here in a minivan. You're still doing pretty well. Was that your Porsche I saw?"

Chuck glances briefly at the window to the garage. "Yeah. Somebody hit me," he shrugs. "So I guess at least I'm not so old that it was pedal error. Got that goin' for me."

"Oh, I heard about that one-- did you? The 65-year-old guy who ran through a daycare because of 'pedal error,'" she air-quotes. "All those kids terrified. I think one of the caretakers got both her legs broken."

"Uh. That's awful." She says something else, but truth be told, he's temporarily distracted by the thought that, technically, due to time served, Dean's older than that and he basically drives for a living. He might actually have to make fun of him for it at some point. 

She touches his shoulder and it jolts him back into the middle whatever she'd been saying. "What about you? Do you have kids? Can't imagine you do," she smiles, "couldn't keep a car like that clean."

And the way she's leaning in and the way she's mentioned his car twice now and the way she's just looking at him really nicely, almost like she's actually attracted to him--

Either it's the intense rubber smell from the brand new tires stacked all around the lobby, or he's getting hit on. For real.

He would tend to think it was the rubber smell. It may be a Porsche, but it's a dinged-up, silver, 2013 Panamera. It's got so much ass it's practically shaped like a station wagon for fuck's sake. It's not a real-money car. Women don't hit on guys because they drive expensive cars, anyway. That happens in screenplays not real life. But, just in case:

"Nah, not yet. We're waiting until he finishes law school to move to another state where there's not so much red tape around second-parent adoption," he nods, like, _you understand, right?_

"Oh," she blinks. And nods politely and changes the subject. She doesn't go ice-cold, she doesn't really back off, so it wasn't flirting. Thankfully when she asks if he's considered joining a church, the guy at the counter calls him up to pay and hand back the keys.

Chuck cringes crossing the parking lot. The red van still in the garage has a "United We Stand" sticker stacked under another that reads "PRAY FOR OBAMA - PSALMS 109:8".

Why are people so creepy?

Once he's back in the car and stopped in a line for drive-thru, he feels like fessing up to Sam.

 **I just pulled out my queer card to get out of human interaction** , he announces by text.

**How did that go for you?**

**Still awkward.**

Sam calls.

"You're in law school and we're waiting until we move out of Kansas to adopt, FYI," he announces upon picking up.

"I don't remember agreeing to that. I said when I finally made partner at a firm. We don't wanna start too early. I've still got all those student loans to pay off."

"That's just what you say when you're trying to worm out of it entirely. I'm attempting to make a responsible family man out of you and you know that's something like ten years down the road," Chuck inches the car forward to pay.

"My parents have been nagging about grandkids for years and I'm the rebellious child. I thought going hard-gay would get them to stop but it turns out you've been plotting with my mom."

"This is a charming suburban life we're living, I think I'm gonna write it down. And then plunge both these characters into a world of backstabbing and depravity."

"That's my loving man," Sam says, fluttery. "I don't mind if you brag about me to the neighbors, really, but I am wondering what prompted all this."

Chuck outlines it and they both kind of boo-hiss religious nuts in general. Because they're entitled to that.

"I gotta hang up and drive, they're about to hand me my food," Chuck says, taking his debit card back through the window.

"'Kay. Thanks for. Um. Taking the low road, I guess."

Chuck snorts, smiles, confused. "What?"

"Nothing. I'll talk to you later."

Chuck gets all the way home, mulling this over. Does Sam think he was being mean to the woman at the repair shop?

When he sits down to eat, he finally texts, **I took the low road??**

Sam doesn't reply for a good long while.

 **I said thank you** , he replies at last.

This is still confusing.

He calls, but Sam doesn't pick up and he sets the phone aside. It's the middle of the day, he's probably on the job.

But Sam calls back in a while. Even the buzz of Chuck's phone sounds reluctant.

"You realize you were getting hit on, right?" he asks as soon as Chuck answers.

Chuck shakes his head. "I don't think that's what it was."

"She was hitting on you," Sam says. "And."

Chuck waits. "And?"

"Thanks for saying you were with someone."

Fuck's sake. "She probably wasn't. And even if, by some chance, a person saw my car, saw me, and still decided to disrobe and throw their undies in my face, I'd still say 'no thanks,' Sam."

Sam's silent and he's on the edge of thinking that it's a _skeptical_ silence when Sam says, "Okay. I'm." He sighs. "Fucking really jealous. We've been apart for more than two weeks now and I just flashed on this nightmare scenario where you break it off because you're tired of waiting and you meet someone who has kids and a nice life and-"

Chuck drops the taco he was eating. Coughs. "NOT HAVING KIDS," he brushes lettuce off his mouth and clears his throat and pronounces it again. "Holy shit, Sam. _No kids_. Please don't tell me you've changed your mind on this in the last five years because that's kind of a biggie that would involve kind of a _big_ discussion and-"

"I haven't- I. Wait. _You_ don't want kids?"

"NO. God, I would fuck up a kid's ENTIRE LIFE."

Sam is unnervingly silent again.

"Don't be jealous," Chuck snipes. "Women don't hit on guys for their cars in real life. And nobody hits on me."

Sam doesn't say anything.

"Except you," Chuck amends. "And I cheated."

" _Cheated._ "

"I know everything about you! I cheated! When I realized you liked me, I basically-"

"I am going to have _a fucking heart attack_ if this conversation goes on any longer, I swear."

"Fine. Whatever. No one's making you talk to me. Hang up. Whatever."

"Wait wait! Wait wait wait, HOLD ON," Sam demands.

"No, you know what? You _thanked me_ for not being a scumbag because you were under the assumption that I _would be_ a scumbag. Holy shit, Sam. I was sharing a funny fucking story with you. I don't have _things_ going on in my life, so when I've got _things_ to say, I tend to want to say them to you because you fucking matter. And, what, you think I'm dicking around with--" he shakes himself. "You know what? Nevermind. I haven't had enough sleep for this conversation. Sleep that, by the way, I've been losing because I've either been 1- talking to you," he ticks off on his fingers, "2- missing you, or 3- worrying about you and wanting you home. So I don't know if this is Winchester moral superiority talking or what, but cram it up your ass."

"Okay. Alright, hold on. No. That's not. I wasn't at all saying that I, like, _expected_ you to- I wasn't. Shit. There's literally no way for me to explain this without insulting you."

"Well, it looks like the low road's crowded today, huh?"

"Could you jus- wh- _SON of a BITCH_ ," the phone goes muffled. "Dean I need a fucking minute, alright, just give me a goddamn minute-" he speaks into the phone, "Don't hang up." There's more talking and the slam of a door and.

Chuck doesn't particularly want to dig into his lunch anymore but he hangs up and eats. He turns his phone entirely off. Sam should be working with Dean right now, anyway, not scraping together some half-assed explanation.

When he throws his trash away, he notices that his hands are shaking.

It's weird because he feels surreally calm.

Every time that happens, his first move is to apply caffeine. That usually stops it. If not, a headache might be coming on and he might have to fight the old ghost of the booze, which pretty much just means going to bed. But in recent months, caffeine has been good enough.

When he turns on the coffee machine, he realizes he hadn't had any before he left the house. He had gotten the call that the parts were all in for his car and he just left. Didn't buy soda with his food. Didn't hit up a Starbucks.

This is.

Wait.

Wait.

Did he just start his first fight with Sam because he was _caffeine deprived?_

Oh.  
Oh, crap.

That's just fucking great.

He leans on the counter and simply dumps his big, stupid head into his hands.

Oh, christ. This is awful.

"You are a huge dumbshit, oh my god," he says into the silence, appalled.

Oh, fuck. Sam is probably composing seven or ten seriously long voicemails full of defense and anger and self-flagellation and apologies and fuck-yous and holy shit.

Chuck's not turning the phone on again. He can't deal with this. He can't do it.

Why did he think he could make a go of this?  
Why did he think he was capable of making Sam happy?  
Why did he think he was sane enough to make an actual, adult relationship work?

Oh, god!  
Dean had been bothering him before Chuck hung up on him.

Holy shit, what if they're gunning it into a fight right now, at this moment, and-- Sam gets sharper when he's angry. He doesn't know whether to-

He can't even do anything. He doesn't have the right words. He's still this chemical-dependent moron and he can't make the right words come out of his stupid face to even put this to rights.

Chuck clings to the edge of the counter in complete indecision. When there's enough in the pot for a half cup he just takes it out, plunks an ice cube in, and chugs the coffee, still too-hot and searing.

_Fuck._

He throws his hands up. Marches back to the couch and digs for his phone.

He turns it back on. It takes for _ever_.

Two calls. No messages.

No texts.

Shit.

Does he call? Does he try to call? He really did get the sense that something was important. The impatient strain of Dean's voice, even though it was too far away to understand.

Bullshit. He's not a fucking prophet. He doesn't know what's going on right at this minute. Whatever it is, it's probably the opposite of what he assumes.

He scratches at his beard and can't decide, can't decide.

Shit. He really hates phones.  
He dials.

"This is Sam, leave a message. Or just text me, please."  
It gets kicked directly to voicemail.

He hangs up.

Alright.  
Okay. Alright okay. Alright.

Fuck.

He goes to dial him again but-

He doesn't have any words. What would he even say? _Sam_ didn't even have anything to say, so.

_Sorry. You can always start with being completely fucking apologetic._

Okay.

He dials.

"This is Sam, leave a message. Or just text me, please."

Shit. "Okay. I really fucked up. I really. I really am just. So sorry. So fucking sorry, I'm sorry. I fucked up. I. I said mean shit. And then I hung up. I shouldn't have. I. Mostly the hanging up, that was totally wrong and fucked up of me and please. Please just. I think you were heading out on a hunt so. Maybe not. But if so. Just call me back when you can. Just be careful and tell me you're o-" his voice cuts off. He clears his throat. "Please tell me you're okay. I fucked up. Shit, Sam. Shit, I'm so sorry."

Shit. He hangs up, hand smashed over his mouth.

Chuck, of all people, knows better than to silence Sam by taking his options away from him.

He knew better than this.

He should have better control over his fucking _mouth_ and he knew better than this.

Why was he even angry?

Maybe jealousy isn't the healthiest thing in the world, but it's not completely fucked up to be jealous. It happens.

It's _absurd_ when Chuck is the subject of this jealousy. But fine. Whatever. It wasn't even like she was REALLY FLIRTING THAT SHIT DOES NOT HAPPEN IN REAL LIFE.

Fuck.  
Shit.

He can't even pull this apart right now. He just _did that_ to Sam. He just bit Sam's head off. He just hung up on the best person he knows. He just ground this thing they've been working on growing directly into the pavement.

He pulls at a fistful of his hair and grabs his phone. And stares at it.

Shit.

He goes to his room. Shuts the door. Pulls the shades. Slaps the lights off. Tugs his clothes off. Climbs into bed. Tries to suffocate himself with his pillow for a while. Berates himself. Descends into visions of horror. Like Sam disconnecting his phone and closing his email accounts and moving out of the bunker and sliding off into the night. Cas greeting Chuck at the door with a demand that he get lost before the wrath of the un-almighty drops down on him. Dean finally stalking out of the dark to scare him away for good.

He indulges in scenarios that go worse. Calling Sam once a day until he picks up and demands that Chuck stop. Tells him he's moved on.

Chuck just keeps lighting up that firepoker and branding himself with it. Text message breakups. In-person breakups. Sam _dying_ on the fucking hunt thinking that his life ended with no one ever giving a shit. Chuck was made for telling a thousand awful stories. All he's got is awful stories.

He gives himself a headache. He wanders back out of his bedroom and glares through the light in the rest of the apartment. He has another full cup of coffee and then he goes back to bed. He lays on top of the covers until he's too cold not to get under. Then he wraps himself up tight on his side and his chest is aching he's squeezed himself so much.

Even with the coffee in his system, he drops off. It's nice to time-warp through pain. Sleep is good for that.

The phone ringing wakes him. The only light in the room, already half-way through the night.

It takes him a second but then he's bolt upright and snatching it up and yes.

Yes. Sam.

He answers.

"Hi. Hello. I'm totally and completely and one hundred goddamn percent fucking sorry from the bottom of my goddamn _soul_ ," he answers.

Deep breath on the other end and nothing else.

"Sam?"

"Yeah," he says, thin and sad. One word, thin and sad and hollow.

"Please be okay. Please, I mean. Please say something. You don't have to be okay with what I did and what I said to you, just please."

"Okay. It's alright, you can calm down, Chuck," he says, rasping and even.

"It's completely _not_ alright. I'm a total shit."

"Stop for a minute, okay? Can you give me a second to reroute? Because I was positive I was gonna come out of that bloodbath with nothing from you and then have to hunt you down and beg for you to even see me. I wasn't ready for the voicemail and this and. I'm just. I'm really tired. Shit, I'm so tired. I don't want to do anything but claw my way to you and just _not leave our bed_ for a solid 72 hours." He sighs. "You have no idea. I need you so much. I don't even know for what, but I'm starting to think it's just." Sam pauses. "I'm starting to feel it in my sleep. I'm starting to expect you to be there and to have somebody to touch and. Maybe that's too proprietary. And it's not something I deserve. But there's this slot in my life where you fit perfectly and that's it. I'm attached to it already. You know everything. You know _everything_. I don't have to explain it to you and you help me square my thoughts off and. You're like windshield wipers in a deluge. I can keep driving."

Chuck has a phone to his ear and a hand to his heart. Under the ache from squeezing himself tight is a swell of clouds and sky within him.

He sets to work. He picks at the bonds around Sam's mind that are trapping him in, making him exhausted.

"Bloodbath?" he asks. "So you guys found who you were looking for? Put him down?"

"Yeah. It's over."

"Alright. But you sound awful. Is Dean okay?"

"Dean's okay. He's fine."

"Then you. Are _you_ okay?"

"I'm still standing."

That's not what he asked. "What hurts?"

Sam doesn't say anything.

"I know you took a hit, I can tell, you already gave it away. Just tell me what happened."

Sam only hesitates one more moment. "Damn thing put a spear through my leg. Dean wrapped it but it hurts like hell. It might have clipped the bone a little but it's the muscle. It's still screaming."

"Did you take anything?"

"I'm having- uh. Shit." Sam doesn't wanna say it.

Chuck gets it. "You're having a few beers right now. It's okay, Sam."

"I didn't want to take." He restarts. "I didn't want to hear your message with a clear head. But I haven't taken any painkillers yet."

"Okay." He wants to say how sorry he is again, but that's not constructive at the moment. "So is this hunt over? Is there anything to sweep up in the morning?"

"Dean's taking care of the bodies right now. He took pity on me for once."

Chuck would hate to know why. He would hate to see Sam's face through Dean's eyes. He would hate to see the wound on Sam's leg.

"Did you lose a good pair of jeans or a raggedy-ass pair?"

Sam laughs, sudden and unexpected. "Oh, man. It was, uh. It was a good pair. They'd seen better days but they were comfortable enough to sleep in."

"I'm sorry. That sucks."

Sam's breath, sighing static into Chuck's ear. "I've had better days all around."

"I know," Chuck says, quiet. "I know. It fucking blows. I don't like it when life tries to chew you up. It's bullshit."

"Chuck?"

"Yeah, Sam."

He takes a deep breath. "When I said what I said earlier today it was because I was still thinking, on some weird level, that we come from different worlds. And that one day you're gonna head back to your world and leave me here. I got jealous. Dammit. Like, instantly. I instantly assumed that someone who might have been hitting on you was handing you the best deal on the table. And that. That is fucked up. And I'm sorry."

"You know that's not the truth though, right? You understand," he says with surety.

"Yeah. Yes. I really do. And really? Even if you didn't still have both feet stuck in the mud with us, I'm so fucking selfish. I'd pull you down here with me."

"Okay, no. You are not, overall, a selfish person. You are a completely self-sacrificing person. And the few moments of selfishness you have are simply a matter of self- _preservation_. Our first instinct is to keep living, Sammy. Even if we've gotta do shitty things to get there. Like hitting somebody back in defense of your own life. You know that. You know even the law recognizes self _defense_."

"Yeah. Okay, yeah," he finally agrees.

"And I'm not going anywhere. I belong where you are, anyway. I. Well, I spent a long time letting this shit happen all around me. And it was fucked up of me to try and step above it. And you're here and so I'm here. And that's just what I've decided. That if I have a say in it, you don't have to do this alone anymore. If I can be a part of this, I should at the very least _help you_. I don't want to get a nine-to-five and pay a mortgage and fuck someone with lame hair. I want to start taking some of the heavy lifting out of your hands."

"I love that you love my hair," Sam says, quiet.

"I love your hair. Every ridiculous inch of your hair. Is it my turn to grovel, now?"

"You didn't do anything wrong. You hung up on me when I was being unreasonable."

"You weren't being unreasonable. As we've established. You don't like the idea of me kicking you to the curb for somebody else. It just so happens that I don't like that idea, either. I wouldn't have... explained it in such a dumb way if I had been running on all cylinders. I pretty much kicked off the first fight of the relationship with a heaping dose of inattention. I only yelled at you because I hadn't eaten breakfast or had fucking caffeine. And that is just so _beyond_ fucked up. For me not to know what's happening in my own head. For me to hate getting yelled at but to do it to you? That's so fucked."

"Chuck," Sam hesitates. "You have to go easier on yourself. You're still not entirely used to living in your own head all the time. I mean, things would intrude, for years. The angels, the memories, the prophecy. They wouldn't leave you alone. And then you washed your brain out with booze. You're really not used to having it all to yourself."

"Well, it's settled then," Chuck declares, hardly in the mood for more argument. "We're both not used to this. We're just gonna have to hold hands and push through unfamiliar situations together. Because we don't wanna keep the tough stuff in our own heads anymore."

"No. No I fucking don't."

"Good," Chuck finally eases back to lie down. "That's all I needed to hear."

And so they sit on the line just breathing for a while.  
Relief, in Chuck's case. Maybe in Sam's, too.

"It's past one here. When did you eat last?"

Chuck turns on his side. "When I was on the phone."

"So, at lunch. So you skipped dinner."

"I slept through it. I'm not hungry."

"You've been up a while now. I need you to go eat something."

He doesn't sigh or protest. He decides to learn from his mistakes. "I love you. Are you gonna listen to me chewing or you wanna hang up?" he climbs out of bed.

"Who else is gonna make sure you don't choke and die? Bring me to the kitchen with you," he hisses, must be shifting his wounded leg. "So, we're heading down to Virginia tomorrow to catch up with Charlie and Cas. Hopefully with four of us it'll go faster for them. Well. Three-and-a-half with my limping."

"And then you'll come here, right? For a while. At least for a little while. Sam. Even just a few days."

"Yes. After Virginia I am headed to you."

He doesn't try to hold Sam to it any more than that. He knows how this works. The manic nature of The Job. He just says, "I hope so."

"I love this phone shit. I love these hours with you. When I see you in real life I'm gonna fucking shut you up as much as possible so it's good that we have time to do the talking now."

Chuck laughs. "What, am I prettier when I'm silent or something?"

"That's not what I mean. I mean I'm gonna be all over your mouth."

«»

Sometimes Sam calls up and he starts off, "Can I tell you something?" And it's always always always something he feels needlessly bad about.

In the phone calls before, he'd be agonizing about how maybe he wasn't strong enough to save his brother. Maybe he was still an addict. Maybe he didn't belong where he thought he did. Maybe Dean was sick of him. Maybe he couldn't love Dean the way he deserved. Maybe he was wasting Chuck's time on these calls. Maybe he deserved to be alone.

Chuck would hear him out. Every halting, absurd word until Sam ran out of them or tried to change the subject. Then Chuck would point out the flaws in his Maybes until he could laugh about them and they could talk about the hunt or the Humanity Stuff Cas learned that week or just tv shows and news they heard.

He felt like he was sweeping Sam's concerns under a rug sometimes. Like he wasn't doing enough to actually address them, prove all of them baseless.

Now, though. As someone who gets to kiss Sam, as someone who wants to just love on him and fold deep into his life, he doesn't have to dance around the devotion he's been nurturing for years.

He listens. But now he gets to praise without reserve. Until Sam is for sure blushing on the other end of the line, speechless and reeling.

He is armed and ready for these conversations. The only ammo he doesn't get to use until Sam is under his hands again is a good, solid session of head scratches and hair petting. Chuck will just have to save those up.

Sam calls.

The hunt is going slow and he sounds really down about it. More than usual.

Then he asks.

"Hey. Can I tell you something?" Voice so small Chuck thinks that's what claustrophobia sounds like.

"Yeah, Sam," he returns, quiet, always ready to hold Sam's secrets.

"I keep." Sam stops, starts again. "I keep thinking about. I keep losing my cool. With everybody. With Charlie, even, and it's so stupid. There's no excuse for it."

"What do you mean? Like yelling?"

Sam hesitates. "I- yeah. Almost. I've caught it a few times. The rest, that's not really the issue. It's just some ways. Like when, you know, like Dean vibes well with Cas, and Dean vibes well with Charlie, and Charlie vibes well with Cas, and sometimes. I just. I donno. I just look at them. And don't say anything. And it's like I'm not even there."

Chuck irons that out. "Like you're on the outside looking in. Almost to the point of exclusion."

Sam gusts a breath over the phone, "Yeah."

"And you don't say anything?"

"I guess I. Sometimes I get snappy with them, I guess, and Cas tries to be understanding but at a point, he just goes cold. He doesn't have time for little kid bullshit. And Charlie thinks I'm angry at her probably and it only pushes her closer to Dean. And they both seem to think they speak the same language with how they like the fights when we're hunting and how they're total geeks. It's not that we don't have things in common. It just seems like Dean gets a sister and I get. A... an acquaintance or just a casual friend or something. She's not cold to me. It's totally my fault, I think. For not trying. I don't try enough."

"How do you think you'd try more? You think you'd have to be like Dean?"

Sam considers. "I guess? Maybe? I'd have to... hug her more. And wedge into her life. And maybe she doesn't want that."

"Well. For one. Your hugs are not to be missed. Those are grade-A hugs. I don't know how anyone could turn those down."

Sam snorts.

"For two," Chuck continues, "have you tried just sitting with her and wedging in? Maybe you need to try it before you decide _for her_ that she wouldn't like it."

"I--." He stops. "Okay."

"You're likeable, Sam. You are. Even when you think you're not. Maybe you should let people tell you when they're fed up with you rather than assuming from the jump that they will be."

"I don't wanna get to that point."

"Okay. I know that feeling. The alternative, though, is not even trying. And feeling more and more... alienated, I guess."

Sam's quiet. "I can try," he says.

Sam wouldn't feel this way if he had the opportunity to make more friends. It pisses Chuck off that he even has to worry about this shit. That he even has to try. That no one will take the time to see what he sees. To just trust that it's wonderful to have Sam in your life.

"So the Cas thing," Chuck continues, "that's probably more a nervous, unresolved tension dance sorta thing than a _you_ thing. You know that, right? I mean. Cas is still trying to get Dean to understand that he's not gonna leave. He's trying to be Dean's safe space and stuff. Relationshippy stuff that Dean needs to be hand-held through because he still thinks he's toxic or he's gonna ruin Cas or break his family or something. Cas is just trying to be careful with him. Like guiding a blind rat through a maze. A rat with no appetite for cheese."

"What's up with your analogies?" Sam marvels.

"I used to write him, I have a ton of 'em."

Sam sighs. "So one I can try to fix, but the other I need to back off," he parses out.

Chuck thinks about it. "You maybe back off between them as a single unit - Dean n' Cas. But Cas is still your friend. You're allowed to declare that you're dragging him to a movie or taking him to hang out. Dean can survive a few hours without the two of you hanging on his every word. And are you having this problem with Dean, too?"

"Ugh. Yes. He's. He's. He's treating me like I'm. I can't."

Chuck waits. "Maybe. Tell me what he did the last time you felt like that?"

"Okay. He. He came over here and I had the door open. Because we usually do during the day when we have separate rooms. Just so we don't-"

"I know. It's easier."

"Right. But when I do that now, well, when I have time, I could be talking to you. So I'm talking to you. And if he feels like he's catching me doing it like it's some nasty habit, he makes this face and he rolls his eyes and throws his hands up, all tortured and disgusted and shit. Like, I can't talk to other people?? Just him and Cas and Charlie? I mean, I understand that it kinda takes me miles away from here. I get it. But not every minute has to be devoted to the job. Dean watches enough shitty tv and hangs out at enough bars that, like, why is he throwing stones, here?"

Okay, well some of that really is probably proprietary Winchester Family bullshit. But shrugging it off isn't gonna help Sam. "I think," Chuck moves through it slowly, "maybe it's something Dean doesn't have to deal with. Because Cas is there. I mean... did you give him that kinda bullshit when he was talking to Lisa?"

"Um. I was. Well. I was soulless at the time. So I guess I remember myself making sure to be supportive and sympathetic and stuff, but..." he trails off.

"As far as Dean's concerned, it didn't count," Chuck finishes. "Yeah. I guess I get that."

"Yeah," Sam sounds miserable.

Chuck is fascinated with accounts of that period of time, but he has to fill in the gaps with a fair bit of assumption. What Sam remembers of it he doesn't much like discussing except in an impersonal way. He'll explain the hunts and his impact objectively, but his own actions bring him shame. He fears the soulless version of himself a little. And Chuck can understand why. It sounds too disconnected. Too disdainful of humanity. Too much like Lucifer.

"Hey?" Chuck says, quiet, drawing him back in. "You know I understand that, Sam. You know I love you and that stuff doesn't change my mind. I know who you are."

"I really wanna think that."

"I seriously fucking understand. I have zero doubts. You're okay."

Sam sighs, shaky. Before he can veer off getting sad and feeling alone, Chuck has to rattle the problem around some more, so Sam can be comfortable with where he fits. It's not okay for him to feel like he's on the outside of his family.

"Short of closing your door when we talk, maybe I should talk to Cas more so it's less weird to Dean, the idea that I'm a part of this now. Maybe I can talk to Charlie on the phone until we actually meet."

Sam doesn't say anything.

"You don't think that's a good idea," Chuck assumes from the silence.

"No. It probably is. Just. First of all, I don't want you to have to talk to a stranger on the phone. I know you don't really like phones. You don't have to pretend for me."

Chuck shrugs. "Thanks. I appreciate that, I really, really do. But I'll get to know her eventually. I can handle it."

"You mean you're willing to crawl out of your hermit crab shell every time I ask," Sam makes it sound distasteful. "You shouldn't have to. Not everybody works on the same level."

"That's not how the world operates, Sam. We have to do things we're not ready for all the time. Anyway, you talk about Charlie a lot. I know we have at least some things in common. I can handle a few minutes on the phone with a stranger every so often. I've lived alone for a while. I have to do that shit sometimes."

"You beat yourself up afterwards. You told me. It icks you out."

"Sam. Seriously? Small price to pay to be considered a functional part of your family."

Flash of that tick thing that happens to Sam's jaw when he's frustrated. All this talk about his anxieties makes Chuck close his eyes and wave a hand around, physically shooing the too-vivid images away.

"But I like _my_ time with you," Sam whispers. "I don't get to see you. So I get this. And it's my time. Our time, you know?"

"Okay. I get that. But you're only gonna feel worse if your response to all this is to hide us away even more. Cloister us in. You have to give a little because you need to live with our situation, but you also have to live with them. In that time and that space. We don't get to pretend we're the only thing going on."

"I know. I just. Goddamnit. It wouldn't be like this is if I could just have you here. We could live and breathe like we're fucking supposed to." He's getting angry again.

"Sammy? I need you to do something for me."

Sam latches on to it. "Anything. Tell me what to do."

"Two things, okay?"

"Yes."

"I need you to shut the door."

"Okay." He hears Sam get off his chair with a loud scrape and pace over, shut the door. He even throws the locks.

"Okay. So you have me all to yourself right now until you wanna get back up and let the air in, alright?"

"I love you."

"Love you, too. Anything else you wanna say with the door closed?"

"So much. Like how I can't wait to live in your space and not have to leave. How I miss you. God. With every empty fucking minute. I want you. Want to be inside you and on you and touching you. I want your skinny back and your scruffy face and your fucking voice to never leave me. I want you to never leave me. I wanna earn it. I need my bestie. My significant other. My goddamn peace. You. Chuck. I don't wanna be in pieces anymore. I want us arranged and in one place and figuring each other out and breathing." He takes a deep breath. Chuck finds he has to take one with him.

"That's more than I can even ask for. That's everything I want and more I never even knew was there. Thank you."

"I'm about to beg you to hop a bus here but I don't trust other people to drive you," Sam has officially lost his filter and his self-control.

He can either ask Sam what he wants to do as soon as they see each other -- turn it from desperate and longing to desperate and dirty and hot -- or he can calm Sam down and give him a little push out into the world to go find stable ground with his family.

"Chuck," he swallows, and okay. Is there really any reason why they can't do both?

Besides that, you know, he just had Sam close the door in the middle of the day, possibly underlining the division that Sam feels and strengthening rather than eliminating it.

Fuck. "I'm here. I. You know if I do that-"

"I'll be a wreck the whole time because I had you upheave your life for me. And I'll be bringing you out in the middle of this hunt. And I won't know where you are on the road. And."

He lets Sam find his own way there.

"And I can do this without you for a while longer. As long as we agree that it won't be like that anymore. That I don't have to be without you. I mean." He stops. "As long as that's something you want."

"That's my actual plan. That's what I'm aiming for, yeah."

"Good. Fuck, you're so good to me. You give me so much."

Chuck closes his eyes and pushes away the urge to get totally fed up. To tell Sam to keep the door locked and tell him what it'll be like when they touch again.

Sam has to go fix himself now. That outranks their sex life. Sam has to live alone until Chuck can be with him again and that feels harder for Sam to do, today, than when it was just him and Dean, before.

Okay. He can let Sam get off the phone. He can handle this.

"You ready for the second thing?"

"Yeah. I wish you were the second thing and I could do you right now."

Not. Helping.  
Chuck clears his throat and rubs at the bridge of his nose.

"So do I. I really do. But if I can't afford gas and I'm not gonna be riding a bus, we're just holding out until the end of the hunt, okay?"

"Okay. I know. What's the second thing?"

"Where is everybody right now?"

"Next door. Probably thinking about getting lunch eventually."

"Good. That'll work. Get your shoes on. Pull Google Maps up."

He hears Sam shift to do so. "What am I looking for?"

"Paintball. You're gonna go over there and shut all their books and laptops and tell them in a very serious manner that you need to have a family meeting. And then you're going to give them the silent treatment until you drive there. And then they're gonna lose their minds and you're all gonna shoot the shit out of each other. Real Winchester family bonding time. You're gonna fake making deals with each of them against one another and betray everyone because that's exactly what Dean will do. And probably Cas. And, let's be real, probably Charlie. Go forth and twist that shit more than _Game of Thrones_. We'll call you Jaime and Dean is Tyrion and Cas is Jon Snow and Charlie is, of course, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea." What a fantastic AU this would be. Chuck congratulates himself.

"I'm gonna do that. Yeah. Yes. Alright. Nice plan."

That's confusing. Sam doesn't sound like he thinks-

"First," Sam says. "What are you wearing?"

"Uh. Wh. What?"

"Take off your clothes."

Wait a minute. He was being really good. He wasn't gonna do this.

"Chuck?"

"Don't you. I mean."

Sam waits. Just a little. "Chuck. Take your fucking clothes off so I can touch you."

"I was being good!" he says, strangled.

"I'm not. Put me on speaker."

"Sam. No. Go. Do things. Things that'll make your life easier."

"You make my life easier with every fucking phone call. I wanna do _you_."

Shit. "I know. And I wanna do you. It's the middle of the day. Your door should be open. You should be participating in life."

"You told me to close the door."

"That was so you could indulge for a minute. Get it out of your system-"

"You don't fucking get it, either, do you? Of all fucking people I didn't think I'd have to explain this to _you_ ," Sam says. And it's harsh. And he means it. And then, "Fuck. Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I know you're-"

"Yeah. You did. You did mean it. And you know what? It's totally okay," Chuck says, completely calm.

They're dead silent on both ends of the line for a while.

"I think you're gonna have to explain that to me, then, because I just lost it. I don't know what I just did, but it was shitty," Sam says, drifting.

"You got angry. You go a little empty-eyed when that happens. You got angry because you started to think I don't understand that you found something but it's made you lost."

Sam exhales. "Yes. Thank you. Okay. Tell me why."

"You think this- you think you and me? Is the end-all-be-all. You think this is it for you. And it only just started. So you're being a little intense. But your life is intense, so that's just how things tend to go with you. But you don't get that maybe I don't have everything figured out, even if I've got... insight. Or whatever. Sam. We really did just start. I know it feels like forever for you. You have all these long moments in your life that feel like they last a little eternity. Your weeks are really long. You never drone through them behind a copy machine, counting down the minutes until five o'clock. You actually live every moment of your days. So. Maybe. I donno. Maybe we need to back off. Because we got very intense very fast in muggle terms an-"

"No way. No how."

It rings with finality in their silence after.

"What? You wanna take it slower? Do yo--" Sam puts the brakes on his anger and starts again. "For a really long time? I thought you were dead. And somehow it didn't mean much to me except another person we failed. And for that whole time, you were still alive and you thought-- you had all these ideas about me. These incredible, amazing, _flattering_ , awesome fucking ideas. And I didn't get to hear them until this year. I didn't know someone out there thought more than, 'There's Sam Winchester. He ruins the world. Every chance he gets, he ruins the world and gets people killed.' I didn't know there was someone out there who thought I'm _okay_ -" his voice cuts out, strangled with feeling.

"Sam. God, Sammy."

Sam takes a deep breath. Collects himself back up. "So take it at a muggle's pace? No. Back off from you? No. Not unless that's definitely 100% what you want. If that is your personal choice, I will honor it, but we're not normies and I am loving every inch of you until someone yanks me off the planet and doesn't let me come back. I thought I could wait and that was crap. I can't. I just can't."

Sam sighs. Long deep breath.

Chuck has no real objection to this. If Sam stays away for too many weeks, they'll have been apart for more days than they've officially been together, touching and declared and _together_. And even with the distance, somehow it feels intense and certain. In a world where power shifts by the week and the boogiemen are real, the fact that this feels stable goes strangely without question.

"So, okay. I'm gonna open the door now and I'm gonna go execute your brilliant fucking plan. It is a brilliant fucking plan, by the way. But I guess that. I guess that no matter what I said, no matter what problems I'm having with my family? You're gonna rank up there. My need for you is equal in some respects and greater in others. It's different but I'm not bumping you down the list just because you've only been tangled up with me for less than a year. It's different with us and it speaks to different parts of us. Different things we need. So as long as you can't even control yourself on the phone, don't expect me to be able to. I need every soppy, frustrating, amazing, ridiculous, romantic minute of these calls. I'm not holding back. I'm clinging to this, Chuck. It's what I've got-- _you're_ what I've got outside of the hunting, outside of what I _have to do for a living_ , I've finally got something I _want to do with my **life**_. Finally. Fucking _finally_ ," he breathes.

"Okay. That makes sense," Chuck admits. He's unwilling to be bullied back down on it, anyway.

"Okay. Good."

"I need to say one more thing," Chuck decides.

"Alright."

"Because you got to be very intense and soppy and sexy and everything on this phone call. And then we straighten each other out and so I guess we're really good at that."

"Is it your turn? To be soppy? Because I've kinda been waiting for that."

"Oh, wow. The wait is over," he nods.

"I'm literally recording this, hold on."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. I have an app," Sam's voice goes a little far away and then comes back. "Go ahead."

"Okay. You ever get caught totally off-guard by some little, tiny, loving moment in the middle of a movie or a show or something? And you're just like, damn. Like, that's how love is supposed to end up happening to somebody. What if it just happened to me and I wasn't the dumbass protagonist? What if I was standing there ready for it and there was a minimum of wait time between 'I found you' and 'We're gonna do this forever'? Like, one day I realized that, for a while, for weeks, at least, I had been asking myself, 'What can I possibly do to make Sam's life better?' And I had no answers. I've got nothing to give you."

"I object."

"I know you do, now. But we knew each other before, and never in a million years did I think I'd, 1- get to see you again, and 2- ever get the chance to make out with you without you slapping my face away. Like, you can't tell me you ever thought I was anything except an unfortunate asshole writer."

"I liked that you'd listen," Sam jumps in, objecting again.

"Yeah, whatever about that, though. I could listen to you forever. But an empty room can fucking listen, too, and all I've got to give in return is something that you didn't give me permission to even see. Sam, I saw all this stuff, all that prophet shit, without you knowing about it and without you liking that I had access to it. Face it: if you had the choice, you wouldn't want me to have seen."

Sam does _not_ object to this.

"Exactly. So we're like. One-time-use plastic forks or something. Coming off different assembly lines and destined for different countries. I don't think this was supposed to happen. We weren't supposed to find each other and keep living. Which. I guess kinda makes it cooler."

Sam laughs. "Yeah. Pretty much."

"Anyway. I never told you about Bosco's."

"Is that a place or a person?"

"It's a bar. Out in the middle of nowhere. I went there. Like. I think it was-- oh. It was _right_ before I moved to Kansas City, a few days before. And I drove there and I sat there in the parking lot and all I was thinking was. 'Shit. Sam is getting so close. And it feels like it's going in this direction. And I don't deserve it. And I can't call Sam and ask, _hey, are we falling in love or something?_ because you can't do that.' And so I sat and I thought about going to have a drink and I couldn't do it. Because you started loving me and I couldn't give that up for anything. I couldn't _argue_ myself into going to have a half-bottle of whiskey. I couldn't do it. I already wanted you. And then I thought maybe you loved me. And I was just thinking: I don't have to be the dumbass protagonist. I can let this happen."

Sam lets him have a moment of quiet.

"You didn't call me from Bosco's because you were-." Sam stops.

"I was already carrying you around. And sometimes it's harder than other times to not drink. But I couldn't drink _because of you_ with you sitting there inside my heart already. It was impossible. You're not a pain I have to drown out. You're the best, brightest, easiest fucking thing. You're bed at the end of the day and being full after a meal and having more than enough for rent. It's the greatest thing."

"That's probably the best sap you've given me yet," Sam says, hushed.

"I have to let it brew a while."

"I don't. Remember when you called me from Denver? About the poltergeist?"

"Yeah?"

"When I thought you were about to drink I just wanted to be with you to help you. It was- even when you said that's not what it was about, I was a little frantic about it. I was like. I couldn't let that happen to you. Not after the work you did. I said I'd help and I couldn't just. I was right there. I had to be there for you."

Chuck goes warm all over. Like wearing a sweater. Remembering how hard his body had been fighting him in those months. And how Sam's arrival had scared the jones away like it couldn’t stand up to Sam's very presence.

"And then, when I said I was sending Cas? Well, Dean said maybe not. He was being wishy-washy with Cas. So I just. I said I'd go and they were totally behind the idea and really, I was pretty excited about it. I didn't think about Dean and Cas being a thing until you said something, so I guess it wasn't completely my idea. But, anyway, I thought I'd have the next day to help you. All on my own. I was gonna show off or something. Which is crazy, I guess, because you already know what it's like. But you were sitting all close to me all evening, doing the research. At the library and in the motel room. Just us. Just you and me for hours. You were right there. You didn't mention going home and you stayed there with me. And I was thinking, because I'm basically a fucking caveman, I guess: _Chuck needed me so he called me and I'm here_. And being able to be there for you. Just, yeah. It was-- and then we went through that graveyard together-- I guess that's not romantic, but." He thinks Sam probably shrugs, trailing off.

Oh, yes.  
Of course.

"Early-morning graveyard walks by flashlight. That's practically Winchester second-base, I should have known."

Sam laughs. "Then. Um. Then I thought. I thought I'd have the next morning in the motel room. To. To um."

"... Walk around wet, in your towel, and seduce me?"

Sam blows out a breath. "Yeah. Yep. Busted."

"Nice. Did you notice how I melded with the wall when you came out of there? Practically naked?"

"I kinda thought that's what I saw, I couldn't be completely sure you were into me. I thought you'd stick around. I was so bummed."

"Sorry. I had to go home and beat off."

"Figures. I miss all the good stuff," Sam's voice drops low.

"Alright. You've had your romance," he has to stop Sam before they go in the sexy direction again because he might not be able to turn him down. "Go back out to the real world."

"Okay. Can _you_ say it this time?"

"You're still recording this?"

"Yeah."

Chuck takes a deep breath and looks for something really good. "Love you, Sam. Be careful with your family and drive safe. I know you can win but I think you should just make sure Cas does. Or Charlie. Not Dean. I think you should get him dead-center on the back of his head with a fat blue splatter. Or yellow. Go for yellow."

Sam laughs.

"Then come back and eat pizza and do the hunting thing. And don't get hurt. Please. Try your best."

"I will," Sam promises.

"Then come find me. Come home. I love you. You're incredible. My actual, literal savior. My actual, literal sex machine-"

Sam snorts.

"My actual, literal, only and singular best friend," he closes his eyes. Trying to see him. _Wishing_ he could _see_. Not just a memory, but the way Sam looks right now. "My partner. My Sammy. My significant other."

Sam nearly _whimpers_. Whispers, "I love you."

Yeah. The muggles can keep their caution. Keep their pacing.

It's different when you learned to love somebody before you knew every gigantic, absurd inch of him was real.

«»

There are things that Chuck thinks about.

Things that he has to stop in front of in horror, as if coming across a dead body on the front lawn. Seeing someone step out in front of your car as you're going 55. Getting one of those "call us back immediately" messages from your doctor.

Total day-ruiners.

Thoughts that make him take a step back into a dark room, scream into the open closet, and then shiver in the sheets for six or twelve hours trying not to get up and put his unused trigger finger to the test just once.

Image: Fractured, flaking claws wedging into a closing wound, peeling it back open and hooking Dean's insides with rusted tools. Dean on the rack and _baking_. Screaming. Weeping. Sick with infection and the bleeding never ending. Knowing he won't ever feel relief. Naked toes barely brushing the floor, hanging by his guts from a wall of spikes.

Image: Karen Singer's body used to mercilessly beat Bobby's face in until he finally defends himself. The way Bobby remembers the knife driving into her and the way his entire life split into two parts in that very moment: Before and After. Karen and Death.

Image: Lucifer wearing a human. Leading a small cadre of stiff soldier demons in suits into a building. Snapping people backwards over their spines because he'd rather his vessel didn't breathe the same air as them.

Image: Sam.

Sam.

Sam barreling down an endless black hole into a shattering impact. Lucifer screaming out of his skin and positively painting the walls of the cage with him.

Sam's chest burst open, smoking from a shotgun hole, flopped over lifeless on a motel bed, Walt Pitts standing over him and swinging the gun on Dean.

Sam sick and detoxing, curled over himself on the floor of the panic room one moment, sweating and puking. The next moment, thinking Alastair is peeling him open, inch by inch. Thinking his veins will explode all over his body and leave him a heap of black blood on the floor. Wanting an end but wanting to fix it more. Wanting to fix it with a re-up and maybe a knife through his dear brother's neck.

Sam struck down by Anna. By Zachariah. Thrown through walls. Meg sludging through his body _using_ him. Ruby _using_ him. Azazel _using_ him.

Sam with a mud-slick knife pulling out of his back, hitting his knees and everything going cold.

And that's just what lies on the surface.

Chuck has sprung awake feeling the impact of bullets against the back of his throat, water choking and drowning him, a monster being hacked to pieces to ensure it stays dead, another fried alive, another bled from the throat, a victim getting her heart crushed inside her chest.

He doesn't wake up like that anymore.  
His dreams, these days, are normal. Even nightmares, when they come, are generally normal-people nightmares

But there's just about as much stopping his brain from reminding him of the feel of Dean's bones breaking under Lucifer's fists as there is stopping him from replaying that time in junior year when Kelly asked him to prom as a joke for her friends to laugh about when he actually blew money on the tickets.

It's something he's had to get used to.

If getting used to it is really what he's been doing.

More than half of these result in him sitting down on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor under the silverware drawer wondering if he's just supposed to replicate the wounds on himself. If that would make it go away.

If he had to do this with somebody else around, he wonders if he'd deal with it better or worse.

At least when he's alone he can let it out. All those agonized, childlike sounds of messy sobbing and hating everything and not being able to escape his own head.

He has been on his own a long time. It really has been beautiful. It's been exactly what he needed at all times. Even the bad times. Even the incredibly horrifying moments. He could take them into himself and deal with them in the silence or pour them into his keyboard. Sleep on them. Shower in them. Dump them into a glass garnished with some ice and orange juice just so he doesn't get scurvy.

Image: Sam leaving for Stanford. Feeling more alone than he ever has been in his life.

And learning to live with that.

He learned to live alone. Learned to love being alone. And, then, meeting Jess was sweet relief. Cool sheets and a pile of blonde hair on the pillow. Her toothy smile and her warm, strong back, hips, arms.

Reasons to smile. Reasons to want to go home. Reasons to want to be shut behind doors. Reasons like having someone boxed in with you who you _love_.

It's 2 p.m. when Chuck realizes he's been sitting in front of his computer, long ago gone into sleep mode, and he's just touching a wound.

A remembered wound. One he never even received himself. A shoulder shot, through-and-through. He has been sitting, touching his shoulder replaying the feeling of being hit for.

Maybe an hour or more?

Text message ping.

He doesn't look at it. It might have happened a few times in the past hour.

Buzz and then the phone starts to ring.

He picks up. "Hi."

"Hey. You writing?" Sam asks.

"Yeah."

"'Kay. Lemme know. Later maybe."

"Yeah. Bye."

He's not writing.

He's alone. He feels every inch of alone and he wants to feel it more. So he hangs up without promising to call back.

In fact.

He is alone. And he should probably stay that way.

But Sam is stubborn. He will not let Chuck drift off.

He doesn't know whether or not he's grateful for that in this exact moment.

Experiment time: this is zero hour. No more talking until he sleeps. No more phone calls to Sam until later.

And their talk will be brief. He will sleep tonight. He will get rest. Whether in the hope that he gets up in the morning with a clearer head and the ability to write, or in the hope that Sam will spontaneously arrive and sap him of all energy merely by absorbing all the life and vitality around him.

(This constant, low-level fantasy he's got going where Sam just comes to live and never happens to leave and it means Chuck gets to feel alive all the time instead of just when he's on the phone.)

This will make the time go faster. He sets an alarm. 10 p.m. Nice and reasonable. If he wants to talk to Sam, then, maybe his head will be a little less black on the inside. Like an 8 hour shift he can use to crank open the windows and usher out the smoke.

He instantly feels like he's lost something.

He will come to understand in the next long days - if not the next eight hours - that he has learned how to be alone already. This isn't a muscle that needs flexing.

The part of him that needs to look at Sam without seeing blood gushing out of him-- that's what needs work. The answer to his problems, the unusual new rhythmic heartbeat in the center of his life -- the Reason to smile, the Reason to be home, the Reason to be alone-plus-one, has, unfortunately, only been in Virginia for four days. The hunt is going slow. And he doesn't leave until it's over.

ETA who knows how many days to Sam's arrival in Kansas.

Seven hours, fifty-three minutes until he allows himself to dial that number.

«»

"Hey, Chuck, hang on a sec," Sam answers.

It's hour nine. He made it past 11 p.m. by getting distracted on an online forum.

He hears Dean in the background and a few "Yeah"s, car doors shutting.

Sam comes back on. "Walking walking. Walking back to my room. Hi."

"Hi. New motel?" he guesses from the sound of it.

"No, we were just dropping Charlie off. She doesn't stay at motels. She works at ours during the day, but she's across the street in a building without health code violations. Holiday Inn. So swank."

"Hey, remember that time you woke up and there was just a cat chilling in the room like it belonged there?"

"Yeah, that's still Dean's high-jumping record."

Chuck suddenly remembers that's a pre-hellhound memory. He's not supposed to be able to recall something so small and stupid. Sam laughs at the thought but Chuck doesn't.

Chuck doesn't even know how Sam puts up with his bullshit.

He hears clacking like an old lock and Sam entering his motel room through a squeaky door. "You got really absorbed in your writing today, huh?"

"Oh. I. Well, I tried to, anyway. I don't think much of it will make sense when I go back. I'm. I donno. I'm tired. I should sleep on it and pull it all apart in the morning."

"I'm- well. You wanna go to bed? I was just gonna give you an update on the hunt."

He should. He should be content with this much. But he says, "No, that's fine. Um. Just. How close are they to being done, now that you're there?"

"Charlie's really organized, the problem is, this one lets its vics go. Just one dose of venom and it fucks with their heads for a few hours and has them spend all their money on it. They get into these huge, blowout arguments with their families. Only a few of them have hurt other people. But the siren is just having a fucking free-for-all. Instead of a few dedicated victims, there's a whole pool of people who are just living in shame afterwards or skipping town."

"Lots of stories to untangle."

"Yeah. And like two new vics every time we turn around. Charlie and Cas keep trying to use themselves as bait but it's not working. We think it might not hit the same place twice."

"Or neither of them are its type. The siren, I mean."

Sam goes real quiet.

"You still there?"

"For the record? You're a genius. God, you're so fucking cool. I'm probably ten times as in love with you as I was a week ago."

"You just had an epiphany," Chuck nods.

"A connection- a- I am gonna- where did I just throw the- oh, there-- Sweetheart, I'm gonna call you right back."

"No, it's fine. I'm gonna sleep," he can survive with just a taste of Sam today.

"Then you better turn your phone off because I'm gonna call back until you pick up. Five minutes."

"It'll be longer than that."

"Take your prophet hat off, you're not the boss of me. Five minutes. I'm just going next door. Tell me you'll still be up so I can say goodnight to you," there's a lot of commotion, Sam rushing around the room.

"You can say goodnight to me n-"

"Not for real. Not like I should. You didn't even tell me what you wrote today. I swear. Five fucking minutes. I love you. Tell me-"

"Five minutes! Five minutes. Bye."

It's more like three.

He goes to bed draped over a lump of blankets, listening to Sam, wanting to be held, promising himself he'll set a longer alarm in the morning for such a huge indulgence.

He loves being alone.

He loves it.

He is so _done_ being alone.

He is gonna hate every remaining moment he's alone.

This isn't nice & quiet anymore. This is numbness and aching. A limb fallen asleep, like waking up with a tingling hand that you fear will never feel right again.

"Why can't you just grow wings already," he mumbles into the phone. "Why can't you just accept your divinity?"

Sam laughs. "I'm not enough of an asshole for that I guess."

"Sing me to sleep," he grumps.

And Sam is so in love that he does.

Sam sings about being busy, _so busy, thinking 'bout kissing you_ , and Chuck isn't conscious anymore.

«»

He wants to call.

He wants to call right now and say, "Hi, Sam. It's raining."

Wants to call up after breakfast and say, "I thought I heard you thinking at me across five states so I ate breakfast."

Wants to call on his way home and say, "I know you're not there, but I'm on my way home."

Wants to call and say, "You were rambling about the effect of altitude on gameplay so I wrote an article about the disadvantages of playing against the Broncos at home."

He wants to call for every stupid little shit.

So he calls less. 

In the grand and glorious and hellacious scheme of things, someone who has chosen not to be a player is worth about as much as the cops. They have a function in civilian society but the more they talk, the more they get in a Winchester's way.

He doesn't want to get in the way. Taking up Sam's time or calling when he can't be having a phone going off or removing him from Dean's company are all things that could edge his life closer to danger.

He can't find his patience anymore. That's what makes him want to have Sam in his ear all hours of the day.

But Chuck can find his restraint. He's tightened his belt before. Lived with one foot hanging over either side of the poverty line for years. He knows what it is to want, even need things, and say 'not yet.'

He sets another alarm on his phone. It goes off when he hasn't spoken to Sam in 24 hours. He quiets the alarm and sets it for another hour. Then another.

He feels successful when he overshoots the mark.

After that, he talks to Sam for _four fucking hours_. It's overdoing it but it's friggin' bliss. They watch a re-run of the third _Pirates_ movie with Charlie, who eventually commandeers the phone.

"You know he has you on this thing as Carver Edlund?" she says in greeting.

"No. I didn't know that."

"Hi, by the way. I read your fic- I mean books."

"Um. Okay?"

"I like your action sequences. You really bring gunfights to life."

"Oh. Thanks. Hey, I heard about your swordwork. Dean brags about it in minute detail. It made me scribble a thing I couldn't use. I was pretty miffed about it, actually."

"Oh, you!" She speaks across the room, "You didn't tell me he was charming," she teases Sam. "By the way," She confides, "You totally come off as hating their guts as a narrator. You get bonus points for faking objectivity so well. Except for how you killed off all Sam's girlfriends, which I'm still pissed about. Not cool, dude."

"I DIDN'T KILL THEM OFF OH MY GOD, it wasn't ME. It wasn't INTENTIONAL. Blame a misogynist god, I only ever SAW the story, I didn't CREATE women to kill!!" He hears Sam in the background. " _What?_ "

"He went into protective boyfriend mode and told me not to upset you. He said you go zero to sixty in--"

There's a rustling and laughter and Sam's breath gusting over the phone again. "Can't trust you with technology even when you're just talking on it? Really?"

Charlie says something back. "She wants to talk Harry Potter with you," Sam says.

"Ask if she 'ships Remus and Sirius."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure we can be friends yet."

"You want me to say those dorky words out loud?"

"Count yourself lucky I haven't had you rank your OTPs. I'm not ready for the heartbreak."

Sam sighs but asks. "She wants to know who you 'ship Hermione with?"

"Oh no. This is gonna get intense. Hand the phone back over."

Sam sighs, speaks quiet. "I wanna talk to you about something. But. It can be after. I guess. Here," and he hands over the phone without even a hint of what that ticking time bomb could be. Fantastic.

"I'll give you back, promise," Charlie says.

"Village bicycle, I just get handed around."

"Do you know I didn't even know Sam was pan until he starts going all ga-ga over you on the phone a while back?"

"He keeps it low-key, yeah."

"Seems a family trait, if you know what I mean."

"Don't start going after Dean for it, he'll just--"

"I know. I already lost the bet. I could've _sworn_ they were already..."

"Seriously, but that pool's been open for years."

"Talk about a slow burn. You even _wrote them_ them that way. It's like 'hello anybody home?'"

"Anyway. Fleur as an OTP. I don't know how much of a crime that is against your sensibilities."

"Fleur Delacour is a married woman, how dare you, sir," Charlie says in a fake uppity voice.

"Can't win 'em all," Chuck shrugs. "Actually, I can barely win one of them. And, truth be told, Fred/George/Hermione is the only OT3 that ever stuck with me."

"Well, I can hardly turn up my nose at the idea of having two people worship her at a time. Sirius and Remus are cute, I guess. Who was your endgame for Harry?"

"Ginny."

"No. I'm sorry, the correct answer is Luna, but we can still be friends."

"Thanks. I seem to be slowly acquiring those. Sam is such a good influence."

"He thinks you are, too," she groans like lifting weights. "I _guess_ I can give you back, now and wait to harass you in person. Suppose I already know who your OTP in your own fandom is. That conversation won't be as much fun as I had hoped."

Chuck frowns. "That conversation wouldn't have been fun at all."

She laughs at him. "Sam. Come get this, I'm not moving."

It's a long moment before Sam scoops up the phone.

"Gonna be outside for a sec," he says, then drops his voice again. "Hey."

"Hey." Okay. So this is making Chuck nervous. He's pacing the living room. He hears Sam shut the door behind him and the far-away sounds in the air change. A distant hush of cars as Sam walks out into some dark parking lot.

"So. You know how I said after we were done helping Cas and Charlie we'd head back to Kansas?"

Chuck's gut.  
Drops.

"Oh," he turns and clunks down on the floor in front of the couch.

"Oh my god. Chuck. I'm so fucking sorry. It's just. It looks really bad. We really don't want anybody else to die."

"No, I know." Holy shit. "I know."

Sam doesn't say anything so Chuck doesn't say anything.

Fuck. Holy shit. It's been five fuckmothering weeks. It's been five _weeks_.

"Say something," Sam says.

"It's been five weeks," he says and yeah. Okay. He's.

Shit. Holy shit.

He's fucking crying.

He immediately starts laughing. It makes him sound hysterical instead of utterly fucking sad.

"Welp," he aims for flippant. "That's just how it works."

Sam does not laugh. "Chuck."

"Where?"

Sam's quiet and then, "Oregon. Burns."

"Stafford, Virginia. Straight shot to Oregon. That's, what? Ohio, Iowa, Nebraska. So close and yet so fucking far."

"Oh my god. _Chuck_."

"I'm gonna hang up, now. I need to. I need to um. Eat."

"Chuck. Stop."

"Sam," it comes out on an overblown giggle, too strained to do him any good.

"Oh, god, I love you, I'm so _fucking_ sorry."

" _Please_ stop putting those things in the _same sentence_ ," he can't help but beg, voice spinning out. And yeah. Now it really sounds like he's fucking crying his eyes out. Way to fucking go. He covers his mouth and it doesn't do much good against the choking sobs. He just gets saliva and tears on his hand.

He wants to hang up and sleep. Hang up and hide and sleep and not be fucking weeping but it turns out he can't hang up on Sam and he knows he won't sleep and he already is fucking weeping.

"Oh, god, I hate this," Sam says, quiet and far away. Listening to Chuck's weepy bullshit.

Okay. Okay.  
Chuck takes deep breaths.  
He pulls himself together. Whatever pieces he can still find.

There is absolutely zero point in making Sam miserable over this and he can hear Sam's misery over his own gasps, without him saying another word.

"How about this," he clears his throat, though his voice still shakes. "I'll pack my shit," he says.

" _Chuck_ ," Sam says, like pleading.

"You'll be on I-80. 29 to 80. Where's that hit?" he's trying to find it on his mental map (Dean's mental map).

"L-" Sam hesitates. "Lincoln. Wait. You could meet us?"

"Yes. God, yes. What the fuck else am I supposed to do at this point?"

"I thought. I." Sam reels for a minute. "Pack some bags and _meet us_."

"Yes," Chuck swipes at his stupid face. His stupid runny nose.

"I love you. I love the hell out of you. I fucking worship you."

"I need you," Chuck sighs out, folding over, dropping his head to the coffee table.

"I'll take it. Congrats on your first Winchester codependency."

"Thanks. What's the traditional gift for that? A sawed-off?"

"Land mine, I think."

«»

He sets an alarm.

He doesn't want to do anything but call back right now.

But he sets a new alarm.

He has to be even more patient now. And he has to concentrate. He needs to pay the bills and now he needs gas money. He has to bank some articles to get paid for later, after a light update and edit.

He needs to gather back up the quiet he was escaping. He has to worm his way into it again and work from the silence of his normal, friendless life.

Maybe he'll talk to Sam around lunch tomorrow.

He's okay with this. Totally okay with this.

But in the morning, as he sits in the kitchen writing, six text messages, ping-ping, and they keep coming.

He sets a separate alarm. He will stop to eat and then he can look at the messages.

TEN more texts come in before then.

Shit. What if Sam is asking stuff related to the case?

Shit.  
He has to check.

The first texts are about the case, but nothing he can help with, just an update. The rest are not.

**Hi btw. Good morning.**  
**You are probably sleeping on top of your phone you probably can't hear these texts coming in I hope you are still sleeping I think you need it.**  
**Sext: I want to tuck you in every night.**  
**Sext: I like the way you say everything is bullshit.**  
**Cas says hi. That one's not a sext.**  
**I am going to call you as soon as we are done and you better be packed and ready to drive.**  
**I am going to see you soon. I am. I am going to see you in Nebraska. It has never felt this far away before.**  
**We just found out a lead was false after following it for 9 hours. I'm so fucking angry.**  
**I broke my bag finally the good one that I've had since I broke my wrist. The strap gave up and I don't know how to sew limbs back on.**  
**I can just throw out points on my own timeline and you know exactly what I'm talking about. You're my best friend and I didn't even know it. It's still amazing.**

Chuck scrubs a hand through his hair. He's not complying with the deadline if he texts back.

 **I'm drinking more coffee than you today** , pops up while he's trying to set the phone aside.

He takes it back up. And sets it back down. Gets up for his own cup of coffee.

Goddamnit.

He takes a picture of his favorite mug, stained and sticky with sugar grains on the handle. **Challenge accepted, Winchester** , he captions it.

Sends it.

Sam replies,  
**Sext: I'm never going to taste coffee again without tasting you.**

«»

The time limit is four hours from being up. He was going to wait. He was really going to wait. He was going to wait four hours and then another and be really good about it. Call and catch Sam in the middle of something, get a tiny fix, and then have to hang up. Then wait again. Chuck really just wants to hear him.

(Oh, god, he just _wants him_.)

Then he ended up returning to bed after breakfast, crawling into Sam's side.  
Then he ended up touching himself.

Thinking about Sam touching him, touching himself.

Thinking about the way Sam handles him like he needs to confirm he's there. This amazing grip. Not delicate reverence or like Chuck's breakable. More like how Sam sweeps the hair behind his own ears. Like the way he taps and clacks a magazine and the familiar, comforting handle he takes on his gun. The touch he uses on Chuck says that he may not know yet, but he wants to. He will come to know Chuck under his hands.

Sam told him about the hallucinations. About Lucifer coming back to haunt him. How sometimes he still can't believe things are real. How Dean taught him to fight through it with pain. To answer the call of reality by using what things he _could_ grip.

Of all the ways Sam has been fucked with, that must be the hardest to climb his way out of. To have to rely on pain to understand what ground is safe to walk on. Like testing a doorknob to know if the next room is on fire.

One of Chuck's few missions in life is to Not Feel Pain. Sam is braver and stronger than he is, no surprise, but with Sam's hands on him, Chuck feels like he can give Sam something he can't find on his own. 

He touches himself and he imagines Sam kissing him. Pleading to be kissed. Saying it. Whispering that small, seeking, _Please?_

He wants to feel Sam's hands like that.  
When they touch down like he's hesitating, but they stay like _now he knows_.

Being protected and having his body cared for by Sam is incredible.  
Being Sam's reality?

Look.

Sometimes, Chuck has memories come through so sudden and thick that he wonders if it's eight years ago and he's about to wake up knocking a bottle of Southern Comfort into his boxy computer monitor with his elbow, glaring at the light in the kitchen that dares fall across his shoulder.

Maybe he doesn't get the unreality thing as much as Sam is familiar with it. He's never had to hand the keys to his own body over for someone else to drive.

But he still knows how important it is to Sam to have something that's _his_ and close and accessible and that he can consciously form a habit of having in his space.

He wants to be Sam's habit so bad.

Chuck wants to feel Sam trying to get used to his body.

He wants to be one of the touchstones on Sam's mental map. Wants Sam to be able to find him in the dark.

He closes his eyes and imagines something that probably won't happen. Maybe years down the line if they get that far and Sam trusts himself enough. Chuck imagines waking up on a regular day, sun just striking the corner of the mattress, and Sam touching him to welcome him to the morning. Kissing him awake after... god. After fucking him to sleep the night before. Well-used and lips already seeking more--

The phone is face-down on the side table when it starts buzzing and he's mid-stroke and there's no way this is actually happening.

But, yeah, it is. Because there goes Sam's ringtone to accompany it.

Shit.

He takes a deep breath and fumbles at it with his other hand.

Fuck.  
Shit.

Four hours.

Fuck it.

"Hey," he answers, clipped.

"Hey. I'm eating breakfast. I decided I had to see if you were."

"Mm. Not so much."

"Okay. Did you, earlier, or-"

"Um," his voice is an unravelling rope by this point. Because it may be Sam in his ear nagging him about breakfast but it's still Sam's voice and. Yeah. "I wasn't. Um. I did, but coffee."

"Are- Chuck, are you oka-"

"Thinking about you. That's what I'm doing," he gasps, "right at this fucking moment."

Sam drops off the face of the planet and Chuck checks to see if he hung up. The call timer is still going.

He breathes deep again. "You want me to tell you?" Chuck asks.

"Y-. Yes."

"I mean. I'm almost there. But. You know. You could help."

"Um. H-how."

"Just be you. Just be Sam. I like that part."

"I'm kinda hurt you'd think of me without telling me," Sam says, soft. "How am I gonna catch up?"

"I don't know. I have no idea. I d-don't think I can slow down at this p-point, _god_. Dammnit. God dammnit. Goddamnit."

"Shit."

"Say something. Anything."

"Uh-I'd-uh. Um. Okay. I'm not good at- okay. Tell me where I am right now."

"Oh, god, you're above me, you're the whole fucking world."

"I'm looking down at you?"

"Yes."

"And watching you. Watching how you touch yourself for me."

"Fuck yes."

"Am I helping?"

"You're touching me. _Your hands_. Just some and th-" he can't right now.

"Just touching your sides. Your knees, your legs. Just kissing inside your legs, right? Watching you."

"Oh god oh good oh good god oh fu-"

"Fuck. Yes. You are. You're so good for me, Chuck. I miss- I love you so much. I want to be the next one to touch you."

"You _have to_ ," Chuck moans, body going stiff.

"Show me how."

"And after," Chuck pleads.

"Anything you want after. I'm right here. I'm here for you."

"Want you. Want you to fucking lose it. Fucking fuck me."

"When you're all quiet and relaxed? After you come. And you want me-"

"Just fuck me to sleep," he gasps, "just want you to be the last thing I even see."

" _Oh god_. Sweetheart. _Chuck_."

" _Please_ ," Chuck hears himself straining to say when he finally loses it, hard up into his hand, shuddering and air cutting off.

The whole world a rumble of sound that's not even there. Until his bones go loose, one by one.

He finally gets his breath back in great gulps. Hears his name like it's far off and distant.

"Chuck? Come back to me. I'm right here with you. You okay?"

"Oh god," he says, tiny voice, world beating around him at the flyaway pace of his heart.

"Holy shit. That was amazing."

"I didn't even really get to talk you through it," Chuck objects. He hopped all over his own fantasy's timeline, he didn't even get to spin the story out right.

"I could tell, though. I'm never gonna be able to get that image out of my head. _I could tell_ ," he promises.

"Your turn?" Chuck is still struggling to get his oxygen back.

"Fuck. I wish. I'm supposed to be someplace in ten minutes."

Chuck busts out into gasping laughter. "I love that you don't think ten minutes will be enough."

"I don't know if the rest of my _life_ is gonna be enough," he sounds so fond and so lost at the same time.

«»

When they were becoming friends, when Sam wanted to call and wanted to come by and Chuck was still sure he wasn't getting the hang of it, his days were still empty and the emptiness was tolerable. Sam shone as bright spots on the calendar, like yellow-crayon, gold-star days when Chuck was doing pretty well at the absolutely elementary task of not running Sam off.

He didn't even get a text from Sam for weeks at a time and it wasn't unusual.

There is noooooo way of going back to that time. There is no way to stop himself from wanting hourly fucking updates on Charlie and Cas's hunt.

So.

To make it more tolerable. To keep himself from stacking the hours and counting them. To take the focus off of how much time Sam will continue to be far from him, he counts other things.

He sets another alarm. He did 26 hours without contacting Sam. If he does 28 and then sets an alarm for an hour after that, he will be so much more practiced.

He shakes his clothes out. Digs through jacket pockets. Rummages through all the neat little compartments in the car. He finds just $14.16 in loose bills and change.

He tries to sit down and write more things to sell so he can afford to put 200 miles worth of gas into the Porsche.

He ends up looking at the time.

He can't think of anything to write. He would call Sam and ask him to ramble about what he learned this week so he can pick a topic for a blog article out of there.

He would call Sam.

There's still 18 hours left until the alarm.

The keys sit on the counter. And this isn't going to help anything. Especially not the money situation. But. It will feel like it.

He gets dressed. He drives.

Chuck prefers not to visit the same Starbucks too often. He brings his laptop and a book to the one where they always forget to stir the sugar into his iced coffee and hopes that if he tips a full dollar they might actually do it this time. Instead he gets the barista who is like, "Are you sure you don't want milk?" Either because she confuses him with somebody else or she thinks he's gonna dump half the condiment stand into his cup.

He should have gone to the Starbucks where the guy on bar tries to engage him in a debate over comics. It would have meant more, but less awkward, human interaction.

Of course he doesn't read his book. Or do his work. He reads the news of the weird in Virginia trying to spot the Winchesters' influence. Hoping for a sign that the normies have stopped noticing things because whatever they're doing is making a difference.

He can't tell if that's the case, really.

Eventually he does start working. He pounds an article out. Refines it to a sharp point. Composes an email to submit it. Refines the email. One step at a time. Until the process is complete and out of his hands.

He does a second one and then he runs out of coffee.

Well, okay.

He only gives himself twenty more minutes mooching the table and the WiFi because he feels like a dirtbag when he does that. Then he drives around looking for a place to get his hair cut. Literally he waits outside of three cheap-ish places waiting for someone to pay and walk out whose hair doesn't look dweeby.

The stylist he's given an appointment with is called Oscar. He's got little Puerto Rican flags all over his station.

And, yes, Chuck's been getting grays since he was fucking 16 so, no, he's not interested in color. He is fine with his grays.

Oscar accepts this as simple fact and Chuck does not come out of it looking like a dweeb. He looks totally normal.

He goes grocery shopping while hungry. Big goddamn mistake. He ends up buying half his food in the chip aisle and like ten frozen dinners. Random cheese blocks he doesn't even know what to do with. He's so bothered by it that, after he gets home he doesn't even eat, he just goes back out to buy crackers and pick up more coffee.

The coffee goes to waste. He eats at least some of like seven different cheeses and a fuckload of crackers and gives up and goes to bed.

He wakes up. Not sure why.

Ah. A text from Sam. Yeah. He decides not to actually read it because the preview starts:

**Pretty sure ur already asleep. I just really mi...**

Like, holy shit.

He dumps the phone to the side upside-down.

He closes his eyes, positive he can drop off again. He can't. It's ridiculous how hard this is. It's ridiculous that this is even tying him up in knots. It's fucking romance-novel absurd how deep he's in it for Sam.

This isn't easy on a nervy, anxious guy. He tends to run out of resilience and hide away to indulge in some heavy-sobbing tears for five minutes before he can slap himself back into shape.

Which has happened a few times now and he's really unhappy about it.

You know what would make that a non-issue?

If Sam were around him. If he weren't counting the hours down and pushing against his control because his access wasn't limited. Not that it is now. The only limits here are the ones he's set up for himself so he stops bugging Sam.

So that, one day soon, he can be back with him, in his physical presence, non-stop.

And then, through exposure, he can finally learn how much of him is too much for Sam. How much of this he can dump on Sam before he gets tired of him.

And then, eventually, he'll be alone again. Without even the prospect of counting down the hours until he can call. Without the hope of being able to pretend he can ignore a message that says--

He snatches the phone back up.

It's worse than he even fantasized it might be.

**Pretty sure ur already asleep. I just really miss you. I wanted to hear you say something before the end of the day. I think I forgot how you smell. I don't mean smell bad I mean like coffee and ur weird tropical detergent. There's something else and I miss it too. Tell me when you wake up. Actual literal best fucking friend. Actual literal hermit crab. My actual literal significant other.**

Is he crying by the end of it?  
He's fucking _bawling_.

He allows himself just two minutes to indulge in the tears and then tries to turn the phone off, scrubbing at his eyes like he's angry with himself.

But.

A text. A tiny one. That wouldn't violate the time limit.

If it weren't for the fact that Sam would reply. Or call. Because he wrote those things down. Sam wrote them with his own fingers and he sent them across the country to him. Because he loves Chuck. And that's just.

That's just. So out of place. And so mind-boggling. And so wonderful.

Sam _loves him_.

He tries to turn the phone off. He really tries to make himself do it. But he reads the words again. And again. And he doesn't turn the phone off.

Luckily he's finally wiped out enough to just go back to sleep.

«»

There's no way he's gonna be of any use if he goes to see Sam.

He's gonna be a waste of space. A distraction. He's gonna stand in the way of somebody getting saved.

He saw himself, you know? In Dean's vision of the future. Still useless. Somebody who gets left behind to guard the supplies when everyone else is out risking life and limb.

He reads Sam's text again when he wakes up.  
And sticks to the deadline.

What use is he if he can't even restrain himself from distracting Sam?

The bloody memories don't help. They're particularly vivid lately. All he wants is to reach out and find the space next to him occupied. But instead he sits vacant in front of a game on tv and feels shadow claws. Vamp fangs. The bite of a blade. The crush of a car wreck.

He knows one of those things personally.

He's not a hunter. He's a drunk. He doesn't pursue thinks to maim. He drowns out the sound of blood filling the lungs, a death gurgle.

He already blew the gas money. What's a little more? He can't see Sam in Lincoln knowing he's only gonna weigh him down.

He gets his wallet and heads to the car.

«»

He knows what did it this time. He was at the gas station.

It had been robbed two nights prior and there's plywood over the place where a glass panel is missing from the storefront. It was mostly all cleaned up after the police left, but there's still shining little deposits of shattered glass in the dips and pits of the asphalt, the cracks of the cement.

A man in work boots got out of his truck, walked toward the entrance, and as he pivoted to open the door for Chuck and the woman behind him, his heel ground against the glass on the sidewalk.

And all Chuck could hear was his fingers breaking.

He'd gone into the station to pay for gas and for something else but he ended up in line with a 3 Musketeers and two Yuengling tallboys.

Got back in the car and whispered, "What the fuck?"

But the cans were cool in his hands and he suddenly wondered if he was sick. If he was running a fever because he was hot in his clothes, sweating at the pits of his knees, and there was a weird taste in the back of his throat.

He thought it was shame, at first. His cell phone weighing the left pocket of his jacket down heavy.

So he didn't call. And he started the car and he didn't call. And he got home and he didn't call. And he turned off all the lights and shaded the windows and didn't call, still honoring the time limit.

Then his shoe squeaked on the tile floor in the kitchen and he got it.

So now, time limit or no, he _has_ to call.

All the text conversations saved on his phone say that Sam loves him.  
So Sam would want him to call.

He tells himself that he has to.

"HiIneedtotalktoyou."

"Hey, what's up?"

"I need to talk to you," Chuck repeats, this time with words that sound like separate words.

"Sure. What's goin' on?"

Chuck licks his lips. "Listen to me: _I need to talk to you_."

Sam is silent for an extended moment.  
"Cas? Could you give me a minute on this?"

Chuck just breathes, listening, but he doesn't hear doors or movement, Cas leaving or Sam excusing himself to another room.

"Okay. Are you alright?"

"I- no. I can't. No, I don't think I am."

"Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"I think. I think I'm. Panicking. Or. Dying or something."

"Alright, let's simplify this: can you tell me if you're _bleeding out or not_ so I can decide if I need to jack a car and get to you?"

"No blood involved. I'm not shot or anything. So maybe I'm not dying," he tries to think, "I can't catch my head. Like my thoughts won't slow down, except they keep coming back to this one thing. This. It's a sound, really. And I can feel it raking across my jawbones and."

"Chuck? Chuck. I need you to breathe with me," Sam calls out to him from a distance.

"I don't know what to do I don't know what to do-"

"CHUCK!" Sam tries to break through, "What's the _sound?_ "

Chuck stares at his hand.

"Sweetheart, tell me what the sound is."

"Crack and a pop. A sudden... crunch." He's gonna throw up.

"Chuck. Go to your room and turn on the clock radio."

Chuck sits still. The cans are in the center of the kitchen table. Shiny like the candy bar wrapper but one is delicious, delicious beer and the other is just fucking chocolate.

"Why?" he asks.

Sam speaks very low. He has gathered his voice back up. "Please. For me. Could you just walk down the hall and go to your room?"

Chuck gets up and does this. "The radio?"

"Find a music station. Turn it on and find music."

He never actually listens to this thing, it's just there as a spare alarm for when he needs to wake up for occasional appointments. He turns it on and clicks it to scan and it finds a country station.

"Listen to something else for a while. Just drown the sound out. Find something unfamiliar. Something you don't know," Sam says.

"Okay." He drops himself down on the bed and Sam sits on the phone with him. It's a poppy country song, not something he's ever heard before. A lot of twang and America and whatnot.

Sam's quiet on the phone for several minutes before he asks, "You okay?"

"I don't know," he actually burns with shame right now. Sam dropping everything to talk to him. To sit and listen to him listen to music. Sam, who is busy trying to save people and keep his family alive. Sam, who is out there doing stuff. Not just going out for candy and booze in the middle of the day because he can't handle his own empty head. And there are beers in the kitchen and he doesn't want to say so. He wants to... scrub out his ears with his fucking toothbrush. He flexes his fingers in the sheets.

What the fuck does he do with the beer? Does he throw them in the bushes? Does he open them and dump them in the sink?

What a waste.  
What a waste.  
He is a colossal waste.

"Can you tell me what it sounded like?" Sam asks, gentle and hesitant.

"Sandalphon," is all he has to say.

"Chuck? Did you. Is there-- I'm not _accusing you_ , okay? I'm worried. I want you to be alright. So. Is there booze in the house?"

Chuck snaps the radio off. And the click of it is satisfying. He turns the volume off and he clicks again. Click.

Sam was trying to get him to replace the sound with something else.

"What do I do with it?" Chuck asks.

"How much is there? You're gonna get rid of it."

Chuck clicks the radio a few more times. "Two cans."

"Okay. Go get your keys for me."

Sam stays on the phone and talks him through it. He puts one under each front tire and starts the car, backs up, and the cans are flat and bleeding out in the parking lot as he drives to Chipotle. Sam stays on the phone with him while he's in line and gets a burrito bigger than his head. Sam stays on the phone with him while he eats and Chuck doesn't realize he was shaking until he's not anymore.

Finally, when Chuck is headed back to his car, Sam says, "Hey, I gotta go. We have an appointment to talk to this curator."

"Yeah, sure. Sorry fo--"

"Don't apologize. Do not fucking apologize for calling me on this. Don't _ever_. This is exactly the reason you _do_ call me, got it?"

Chuck reaches his car and leans against the door. "I just took up like an hour of your time. I was eating for most of it."

"Actually, I think that line was fucking bananas. You probably spent more time standing and waiting for your food than consuming it."

He'd told Chuck all about the case. About Charlie taking the lead and kicking ass. About how he walked in on Dean and Cas talking about getting some sort of matching tattoo.

"I'm gonna say one more thing, though," Sam takes a deep breath and builds up to it. "You didn't answer the text I sent last night and I haven't really heard from you- we haven't really _talked_ in almost two days."

Chuck shrugs, crosses his arm over himself. "I don't have a very exciting life. I just don't have anything to talk about."

He doesn't think Sam buys it. "You think, maybe. You really want me to stay there for a month when we get done?"

"Hell yes," he can feel his shoulders untense. He can feel the last of the panic ebbing away at last. At the mere thought.

"I'm not good at this," Sam says, quiet.

"You might not think you are. I think. I just think. I think you're amazing," he closes his eyes.

He can hear Dean's voice in the background, some kind of commotion.

"You've gotta go."

"Yeah. You're okay, now?"

Just ride it out, Chuck thinks to himself. Just give it a few more days. Or weeks. Weeks. Jesus. He toes idly at the front tire of the Porsche. It's not even damp. "I'll be better by the time you call tonight."

"You got it," he can hear Sam smile.

"Please don't get too roughed up."

"I'll do my best."

Chuck gets as far as buckling in and starting the car before he calls Sam again.

"Yeah?"

"I really, seriously love you. I just." Chuck shakes his head, "Love you."

Sam is silent for a long moment. "Love you, too, you soppy, romantic shit."

«»

Sam doesn't operate on time limits. He calls when he gets back in the car, a few hours later, Charlie and Dean gabbing away in the front seat. They talk about the comics Chuck has been reading.

He calls after dinner. He makes sure Chuck ate and Chuck worries about him limping around on his wounded leg and Sam convinces him he's fine.

He calls after he bids Chuck goodnight. Because he forgot to tell Chuck he did a good job calling when he needed it. Tries to drill into Chuck's head that he should always, always feel like he can tell Sam when he needs him. Chuck maybe falls a little more in love with Sam when he admits it's to the point where he calls just because he needs Chuck's voice in his head to even sleep.

Sam calls for breakfast. Chuck is on a peanut butter kick and he stays on the phone, laughing as Sam runs to the mini mart next door and buys bread and peanut butter for himself, too.

Then he calls thirty minutes after they hang up.

"Hi," he says and in just two letters Chuck can tell he's seething.

"Sam," he says, cautious.

"I need you," he says like it's bleeding out of him and nothing will stem the surge.

Chuck takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Same."

"God _dammnit_ , Chuck, my _fucking brother_ ," he as good as spits.

"What did he do?" Chuck asks, already utterly unamused by Dean's bullshit.

"He's telling Charlie she has to hit another hunt and isn't letting her know about the Oregon thing. Eight more people died in the last 12 hours. It's awful. But he thinks it's too dangerous to have her there. And."

He has a clear mental image of Sam clenching his jaw, furious. "And?"

"He won't stop in Lincoln. He doesn't want me 'carrying you' on the hunt while such bad shit's going down. He wants to drive straight through. He won't. He won't stop for me to even see you."

Chuck isn't quite so torn about this. Doesn't doubt that Dean's right. But Sam is angry and Chuck is inclined to be furious for him. "Since when is this his decision to make?!"

"Cas isn't helping me convince him. I don't." Sam blows out a breath. "I don't think he disagrees."

"Fuck."

"Shit. I can't. I have to, Chuck. At least once."

Son of a shit this is absolute bull. "I know. Me too. What if. The car's not exactly inconspicuous. What if I just follow?"

"Chuck. I don't- do you even have the money for the first 200 miles yet?"

He asks because they already discussed it. He doesn't. And he's too gutless for credit card fraud.

"Fuck this," Chuck mutters.

"Stay on the phone. Please just talk to me," Sam sounds resigned. " _Please?_ "

It's that pleading again. He can't fucking stand it. "I'm not supposed to be talking. I'm supposed to be with you. God, I should have just gone in the first place. I'm a goddamned idiot."

"Stop. Stop stop stop. No. Just talk to me. I don't know how to deal with this anymore. I did it before for months and weeks and I can't do it now. Not after you got hurt and not wanting to be closer to you. Not knowing what it's like to sleep around you. For you to let me touch you."

Chuck tries not to spit another curse aloud. Sam is unacceptably sad right now. He has to do something about it. He rubs at his forehead with a thumb. "Tell me," he tries to think of something he doesn't already know the answer to, "um. Tell me how you want the apartment to look. What are you gonna bring with you?"

Sam sighs. "I donno. Books. I guess I'll bring books. And a. Um. A toaster oven. I'm really good at making stuff in a toaster oven. I'll show you."

"Your never-ending mission to keep me fed," Chuck tries to get his smile across in his voice.

Sam snorts. "The first time I asked you what you had for lunch, you said 'I donno, there's no beer in the fridge.'" His attempt at affecting Chuck's voice is very nearly there.

"Guinness is a meal in itself, ask the Irish."

"Yeah when they had rats in the vats to serve as protein."

"That's how you drink on a budget," Chuck nods his approval.

"Stop. Beer is not enough to keep you alive."

"I'm not sure anything is enough to keep me alive-" Chuck stops.

Shit.

Sam is crushed anyway. "I can't do this without you," he sounds more numb than sad.

"That's crap," Chuck insists. "You did just fine all those years without me."

"Fine in hell or fine without a soul or fine with my brother dying? To what fucking portion of my life are you referring?"

"Sam. He. Dean may not be our favorite person right now. But you _are_ alive after all that. And he's. I mean he really is just trying to keep people alive."

"We're not sticking up for him right now. Be angry _with_ me right now."

"I don't want you to be angry unless it's gonna keep you alive. I want you to. Sammy. I just want you to be happy."

"Well. We got a problem, then. Because the only thing that could fucking calm me down is you. I don't even-- my body doesn't even understand anymore. I wake up so early and you're not there. And then. I don't get what the thing is where suddenly you're not calling me. If I wanna hear you I have to be the one who calls. Are you. Are you doing that on purpose? Your life isn't boring to me. I don't know why you would even assume that. We've been talking about off-the-wall shit for like a year now. It's never once been boring to me, I'm fucking trying to _learn you_. It all matters, every minute of it. Did I say something to make you think otherwise?"

"I-- no. No you didn't. Please. Please don't yell at me," he hates the way this is going all of a sudden.

But Sam takes a deep breath. "Okay. Not yelling. I won't yell at you. I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at just. Everything. I don't understand. And I just."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You don't have anything to be sorry for. It's okay."

Chuck takes his own deep breath now. "No. I do. I was... I was doing it on purpose. I was trying to make time go faster. But it doesn't seem to be working on your end."

"What. What do you mean?"

"I was. I figured if I could wait longer and longer to talk to you, it would make it that much better when I did finally get you on the phone. I figured. It just seemed like maybe I wouldn't get on your nerves and we'd have more to say, then-"

"Are. You. I mean. You can't. Chuck?"

He cringes. "Yeah?"

"Please stop doing that to me."

"Oh. Um. Okay."

"Could you just do something for me?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Tell me I'm not alone on this."

"You're not. I'm with you."

"I'm gonna stage a fucking rebellion."

"You're not on a contract or anything, Sam. You can do your own thing. Dean's just being cautious and you know it. As long as you still want to hunt," he shrugs. "I mean you guys got rules. You have to do what's best for the situation."

"What about what's best for my significant other?"

Chuck feels like he just got jerked to a stop from 80 miles an hour. He actually flinches. "I don't get to dictate who lives and dies because I want to be near you. Face it: If I were more concerned about the victims - about saving people - I would have saved up the money by now. I'd be in Oregon waiting for you."

"Don't get any ideas. I'd really prefer if you didn't go there without backup right now. I will lose my goddamn mind."

Chuck blows out a breath. "I want to call you all day. Somebody's gotta have self-restraint."

"Why? Dean's a big fan of the concept that we could drop dead at any minute. If that's how dangerous it is for us, I don't need you holding back on me. I'll take all you got."

"We sound fucking obsessed."

"That's why we can't do it this way."

"I know that. We have to change something. Just. We'll figure it out. We'll work on it. Just not right now. We'll be better at this when we don't have the miles between us."

"And what if Dean's running down the miles 'cause he can't sit still with Cas?" Sam challenges. "Do we really have to be a casualty of their, like, teenage angst?"

"No. But you tell me the Oregon thing isn't a real hunt," Chuck shoots back.

Sam is silent.

"So yeah. The hunt is real. It's not an angst thing. And when you decide the two of them, or Cas, Dean, and Charlie, can handle one without you. I guess. I guess that's when you'll be here."

Sam stays quiet for a while. "I guess I just wanted you to talk and not make sense."

"I know. I'm such a bummer when I can grasp the logic of a situation."

"I haven't seen you in six weeks," Sam blows out a breath.

"I know," Chuck repeats, soft. "I'm the one who broke down fucking crying about it."

"I know things get overwhelming for you. I don't mean to make it harder."

"You don't."

"You _cried_ ," Sam sounds sad.

"I cry over my tv shows, too. I got stoned one day, like the month before college was over, and I donno. I spent the whole day crying. It was such a relief. I haven't been able to hold back since. It's cathartic. I mean, it'll give me a headache every once in a while, but I'm all alone here. Why box it up? I barely got to feel emotions I wasn't instructed to as a kid. Like, 'your sister broke her leg, be happy it wasn't you.' And, 'your brother graduated, be happy for him.' And, 'your cousin's gonna be spending the weekend, you'll have so much fun.' Like, _fuck you_. Then I had heaven bossing me around. Here, feel everything that all these strangers are feeling. Feel them get beat up and killed and lose their families. Now I get to be my own kind of miserable whenever I wanna be."

Sam laughs. It's thin but it's there. "Oh my god I love you. Every miserable piece."

"See, here I go again," he jokes, faking getting choked up.

"No," Sam moans. "I'm supposed to make you happy."

"Every time you fall for my bullshit you make me happy. You're pretty good at it."

Sam clears his throat. "Speaking of falling for bullshit?"

"Yeah?"

"No more time-delayed calls. Promise me."

"I don't wanna bug you."

"It bugs me when I'm in love with a dude who's half a continent away from me and he refuses to contact me. You know, just to twist the knife."

Chuck is suddenly breathless for no good reason. "Have we ever addressed how I have no idea how that happened but I'm holding on with both hands and I just. Kinda wanna thank you. For even. I donno. Giving me a shot."

"You're welcome. If you love me, too, then you'll promise not to pull tha-"

"I promise. No more alarms. No more timers."

"Good," he breathes deep. "Thank you. What are you doing today? Take me with you."

"Not much, really. Writing. I got stuff done the other day. Got a haircut."

"Wish I wasn't a dead felon and I could Skype and see you."

"The NSA would disapprove of my appearance at present, anyhow. I am in definite need of a shower."

"And I really wish you could take me with you for _that_."

"Please tell me you're almost done on that stupid case. The faster you're through, the faster you can move on."

"We're really just waiting on Cas to do some recon. I donno. Lots of edgy people around right now."

"If you can't answer the phone because intense shit is happening, just text me whenever you can and tell me so. And if something happens to you I need a call."

"Cas will call. He said he would."

Chuck sighs relief. He's been hanging on to that idea for a while. Since before Dean's shitty reaction to the Winona thing. "Thank you," he says after a long while.

"Dean is gonna have to fucking get used to this," Sam grumbles.

Chuck isn't expecting that to happen any time soon. Dean can ride out a grudge for years when he wants to. He can forget just as easily, but when (or if) Sam gets to the point where he doesn't care that Dean's watching, and Dean happens to see them touch, he'll for sure play the uppity big brother role again. Stepping on Chuck to preserve the sanctity of the only family unit he thinks he cares about.

Unless Cas starts speaking up.

"I wonder if Cas has got a plan," Chuck says. "Cas always has a plan. He doesn't do non-involvement without a reason. You're his friend."

"Yeah but he's got Dean's back more often than anyone."

"Anyone other than, um. You?"

Sam sighs. "Not today. I've abandoned him. I don't give a shit. Teach me your hermit crab ways."

"It's a lifestyle, really. All quiet in my shell and complaining to nobody but myself. It's warm in here and it echoes and you can kick me around and I won't even notice just huddled inside. An all-around pleasant little hermit crab life just on my own."

"So tiny."

"I don't know when, exactly, I morphed into this shape. But it does seem fitting."

"I love the hell out of you."

"I can't tell you how nice it is for someone to just pick up my stories and run with them. It's been a long time since I've had somebody to play with. Somebody who wasn't too serious. Or too crazy."

"I'm still wondering if you convinced Sam In Law School to have babies with you yet."

"He remains resolute. My biological clock is ticking away and I think he's been going out for drinks with one of his professors. We might be doomed."

"That's awful. What a dirtbag."

"Yeah, but I might be flirting with this hipster type guy who spends his life traveling. Coffee shop meet-cute, you know. He picked up a temp job as a barista and he's trying to convince me to travel with him. Every time I stop in for a venti, he only charges me for a tall, and he's been spinning these tales that make me wonder if settling down isn't quite right for me."

"Oh, god, are you dumping Law School Sam?"

"I don't think it's to that point yet, but, honestly, we're like one enthusiastic hump in the bathroom at a concert away from just running off together. I think I'll be a lot happier with somebody who doesn't disappear all day and then come home and share exactly zero of his actual interests with me."

"This is... I'm really torn up about this. I wonder if Law School Sam even knows he's losing you to-- what's the barista's name?"

"Hipster Sam."

"Hipster Sam is gonna sweep you off your feet and Law School Sam will have no idea what happened until he ditches class one day and sees you're not home."

"That's what he gets for fucking the professor."

"I have to ask the actual you a question right now," Sam says slowly.

"Sure."

He takes a deep breath and nearly starts but Chuck jumps in-

"No, there's not a barista flirting with me. If I got free coffee from somebody it would be a day-changer. I'd literally text you the whole story. It would be a dream come true."

"O-okay, that wasn't the question, but, good to know I guess. Um. The actual question is. Well. Invasive and premature, now that I think about it. Nevermind."

"You're chickening out?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"You sure?"

Sam's quiet for a while. "Yeah, I think so," he repeats, dour.

"Is this a big-serious-relationship question? Because I have to admit my heart is kind of ramping up in speed. I've been dreading these."

"You don't have to- wait. Why?"

Chuck hesitates. "Being all in love and strangely different is cool and all. I just. I'm gonna start worrying about what you need when we stop being in love and start being stuck together."

"People don't always just get stuck together," Sam says, careful but clearly smiling as he says it. "I mean. We're not starting off dating on a clean slate like we just met or something. In fact, I'm kinda continually floored by the fact that you know me so well and you already know where we fit together. I'm the one who gets to discover stuff and. It's like. Every day is different. You're already on the next floor waiting for me to climb up. And when I get there it's- I can't believe how it just gets better. I don't think..." He pauses. "I don't think you were waiting for me to find out I love you. I think you were surprised by that too. But you made sense of it and you're ready for it."

He can't.  
He just can't.

"Chuck?"

"Yeah, sorry."

"You just got all choked up again, didn't you?"

"No, I'm fucking seriously gonna cry, that's really rude of you."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Sam says, voice still smiling.

Chuck takes a deep, shaky breath. "What was the big-serious question? I can handle it."

Sam exhales. "I donno if I can, though."

Chuck just waits.

"We were fighting when you said it," Sam starts, sounding awful.

"No," Chuck stops him right there. "I did not, nor do I now, nor will I in the future, have my heart set on kids and a picket fence. I have a really low opinion of those things, Sam. And, yeah, it's based on my experience in that zoo I grew up in but. I've tried, I've just never really understood why those are considered landmarks. Why they're considered important. Because they're not important to me. They're not the mile-markers that I'm counting. 

The next sound on Sam's end is another heavy exhale. "Okay. Okay. That. You know how I feel about that. I thought it might change for me. But the harder I dug under it, the more I found of my roots. They weren't what I wanted to find, I guess, but. The job. My brother. Saving people. Making the world safe. It's important to me."

"Well, then. I think I've been adjusting my worldview around you for a while now. Even if I'm not a rock-em, sock-em Winchester. I'm on board."

"As long as you're sure. As long as you promise to tell me if you change your mind."

"I don't think my mind's gonna be that easy to change anymore. Now that I'm pretty much framing everything around the both of us."

"God," Sam laughs. "Do you know how hard it is agreeing to anything anymore? Every stupid little thing that I decide in my fucking motel room when you're not even around. I can't help but think it happens to your life, anyway."

Chuck drops his face into his hand. "Okay. We can stop worrying now. We are on the exact same page. Chapter and verse."

"I so rarely get to be the creepy one."

"Anymore. You so rarely get to be the creepy one _anymore_. Because you've been super creepy in the past," Chuck reminds him.

"Let's stick around and creep each other out for a long time."

Chuck has the dumbest fucking grin on his face right now. "I'm so ready for that."

"I wanna come home," Sam whispers, suddenly sad again.

"I know, Sammy. But."

"People are dying. It's dangerous."

"Yeah."

Sam doesn't say anything.

"Be good. Do the job really well. Get it solved. Get it fixed. Then come home."

"Maybe I'll have to see about getting you a few fake cards."

"You use fake cards, eventually somebody pulls you up on some security cameras. My real name is still good for something for a while. Until some cop finds my fingerprints at the scene of a monster kill."

"Yeah," Sam admits. "We should hang on to that while we can. I guess." He sighs and he's quiet.

"You see why I count the hours?"

"No. I really don't. Please stop that shit."

"Okay, okay."

«»

Chuck makes the call this time. Because his show is over and the local news turned on before he could shut the television off. And now everything sounds very silent. Too silent in comparison to the jarring intro music of the Fox 4 broadcast.

"Fuck," Sam answers. "I was two seconds away from calling you. Hi."

"I swear that wasn't a prophet thing."

"Now, are we dead sure about that? Because I've been thinking it for six minutes."

"Are we sure you're not still psychic?" Chuck challenges. "Could be the other way around."

Sam considers that. "Point."

"What's on your mind?"

"You first. You beat me to it, anyway."

"I was just. It was just quiet. And. I donno. I'm getting used to having your noise."

"Is my noise annoying?"

"No. It comes with you attached. I shouldn't say 'noise' I guess. But even when we don't talk much it's just. Like, the noise of not being alone."

Sam doesn't provide a lot of noise for a moment. Finally, Chuck hears a door creak. He says 'goodnight guys' to Dean and Cas and shuts his room up.

"I um. Can I. Can I tell you something?"

"Yes," Chuck settles into the couch and focuses.

"I get angry sometimes. A lot. I mean. I get really angry. And sometimes I can't rein it in."

"I know. You work on it."

"Yeah. But I've been working on it _forever_ and it never feels like it gets better. Some days are worse than others. I've got a hair trigger sometimes."

"Yes," Chuck nods. "Yes you do. And the key to this is that you're still a man with a conscience. So you feel bad afterwards. And you apologize. And you make up for it."

"But I can't change it."

"You have changed it already. You are changing it, current-day, and you did change it already. I can tell the difference, Sam. I could list off all the ways you changed between the last time I saw you in the visions and now. You change," Chuck assures him. "You grow."

Sam hesitates. "Are you sure? Because it feels like I've been doing the same shit forever and I'm not entirely sure I won't be stuck doing the same shit when I'm sixty."

"Well, I've seen changes. I can promise you that you have changed. You have grown up and out and in different directions. You have. And if those changes are too subtle for you and you want other changes, all you have to do is decide what those will be and do them."

"What if I'm in too much of a rut? What if I have too many habits?"

"You decide to stand in your own way. You decide to block your path. You can recruit Dean if you want. Or Cas and Charlie. And you have me. All you have to do is say, 'I want to stop doing this thing,' and we take it out of your hands every time you try to do it. And eventually it sticks."

"I donno. I'm starting to feel so old, like that's not a possibility."

"The fact that there's no booze in my fridge says that I have the authority to completely disagree with you."

Sam doesn't say anything. He's willing to take 100% of the blame when things break, but he's not willing to admit he also has the tools to fix.

"Hey," Chuck calls out.

"Yeah," Sam responds. "I get worried. I get worried when I get deep into a relationship. I worry that the anger in me will take over sometimes. And that, combined with being my father's son. I donno. I worry about caring for you right and not hurting you. I worry about getting angry over stupid, petty stuff. I feel like I have to tie it up tight every day before I leave the bed. I still say awful shit to Dean. Cas has been on the receiving end before. I've got." He takes a deep breath. "I never liked the idea. But I know why I'm angry. Not that I agree with him completely. But I know why."

Lucifer.  
Sam is talking about Lucifer like the economics prof who failed him just to shit on someone smart and accomplished. Just to watch the real world tarnish him. Just to let him know for the rest of his life that nobody's perfect. Just to give him a personal ghost. Just so he knows that his human failings are public, that not everyone falls for his brains and his charm.

Sam conquered his ass. Satan doesn't get to keep his claws dug into him. He's in a box and Sam is gonna stay safe from him.

"Do you think Lucifer never lied to you?" Chuck asks. Because Sam may be too polite and careful to use the name but Chuck thinks that's how you give assholes power. Like Voldemort or some shit.

"He didn't seem to."

"But when you started seeing him in your head again, when you were hallucinating, you were ready to believe he'd let you live an illusion. You were willing to believe what he'd said: that he created a crappy world for you to live in and manipulate you. So you don't _really_ think he never lied to you. You always knew he probably was lying but the reality is that Lucifer lived in his lies. He made them reality by believing in them so hard that he didn't have to consider them lies. Bending the truth to fit your version of the facts does not make you an honest person. Why aren't you willing to nail Lucifer with that, but you'll rant about literally every Republican in Congress who does the same?"

Sam gives a breath like he's deflating entirely. He doesn't say anything but Chuck's pretty sure it had the desired effect.

"So if Lucifer actually did lie to you, then you weren't just made in his fucking image. You aren't his double. You're not an irrational person just brimming with hate. And I'm not out to excuse violence. Things that may have happened in the past. Like between you and Dean. I just know that you're not gonna let yourself become somebody who would get drunk and powerplay and slap around the people he loves. You've made too much progress, careful, step-by-step, in this direction. You got quiet and cautious and just because you slip up sometimes, that doesn't mean you're gonna blow up. You are too self-aware for that. So, yeah, I mean. You've got a lot of anger in you. But when you discount the rest? All that effort you put in to counter your anger and work on it? You're doing yourself an injustice."

Sam is still silent until he says, "I'm gonna go to bed, Chuck."

"Not yet. Do you need to hear me say it?"

"I don't want you to have to. It makes me a really shitty person if you have to."

"That's not true. You're a perfectly sweet, nerdy, bonkers person and shitty things have happened to you. And that's your default: loving, smart, caring, human Sam Winchester. You were bullied into the rest of it and I don't think it lives in your heart. It was tattooed into your skin and they forced you to wear it but they can't force you to breathe it. You're not gonna turn into Joh-" Chuck checks himself. "You're not gonna hit the people you love and force them to do things they're not ready for. You are much more likely to suffocate me in a fucking hug."

"I'm supposed to be taking care of _you_ ," Sam says low.

"We're taking care of each other. I donno. We both seem to be doing pretty good. We only sound dopier every time we get on the phone with the 'I love you's and everything. We're probably sickening. You're lucky I don't call you 'honeypoop' or something."

Sam finally, finally fucking laughs. "Honeypoop. What the fuck."

"So, checks and balances, okay? Me with the drinking and you with the anger management. You've been doing your thing for longer. You're very self-aware about your anger, so, honestly, my job is way easier. You're still not even gonna drink in the same room as me for years, I can tell."

"It's good for me to drink less, though. I mean, that's always good."

"I donno, I'm a big believer in-"  
"Yeah. I'm gonna cancel that sentence," Sam interrupts.

Chuck shakes a fist in victory. "See? You're really good at that. How am I doing on my end? Are we calm or simmering?"

Sam takes a deep, relieved breath. "We're calm. You're doing good on your end. Thanks."


	2. the great shark hunt

**We are pretty sure we found it. Heading out now.**

The text ages on his phone. Twenty minutes older every time he pulls it up until it starts reading 1h, 2h, 3h. Mocking him for all that time he spent waiting and not calling and not contacting Sam.

Chuck doesn't eat anything.  
He wants Sam to call him up and bitch at him about it.

Then another hour passes and he eats out of both hunger and guilt.

Unknown number: **Sam's phone died but Sam did not.**

This is quickly followed by his generic ringtone. When he picks up it's to Charlie's voice. "-- can handle it."

"No, it's like _wildly_ inappropriate! I can't even tell you, he panics at the drop of a-"

"I _AM_ ON THE LINE YOU KNOW," Chuck yells into the phone.

"I think you offended him," Charlie says. "Here, take it. I'll give you a minute."

There's a shuffle and a deep breath, Sam on the line. "She's like _literally_ Dean's sister, it's fucking surreal."

Chuck has to sit the fuck down.

"You there?"

"Are you in one piece?" he asks, weary.

"Yeah. Totally fine. We're all okay."

"Is it over?"

"Yeah. Charlie's gonna hang back and make sure, but these things are pretty rare, it was probably the only one in town."

"Yeah, so I do, by the way. Panic at the drop of a hat."

Sam's voice goes soft. "Yeah, I know. Are you okay?"

"Fine. I'm just. An army wife. And it's bullshit. And I see two words too close together in a sentence and I-"

"I know! I know. I'm sorry. It wasn't my idea."

"Ask Dean again. Please. Be nice to him. Feed him beer and bug the hell out of him and tell him he's the best big brother in the world," Chuck flat-out pleads. "I need you."

"Oh, god, Chuck."

"Put me on the phone with him, I'll compose epic poetry of his victories, I don't care."

"Sweetheart-"

Chuck bolts upright. "Better yet! Get him drunk and take the keys and tell him he can sleep on the way there!"

"... You do know how long it takes to get him drunk, right? And he's got angelic back-up."

Chuck deflates. "Fucking angels."

"Alright, but you know Cas isn't-"

"I know, I know. Whatever. Fine. Go to fucking goddamn Oregon, see if I give a shit."

"Please don't say that. Please just stop."

Chuck closes his eyes. "Sorry. I'm genuinely sorry. I didn't mean that. I love you."

"That's exactly what I needed. Thank you. I wanna kiss you so bad," he whispers.

He rubs his head. Tries not to break the fuck down again. "Get done with this."

"We will."

"I don't know if I can talk like this anymore. You should give her phone back."

"Oh. Okay," he sounds so bummed.

"Tell me, first," Chuck requests. "Lay it on me."

"I love you and I want you. I can't believe you feel this way, too."

"That's a good start."

"I'm gonna get home soon and keep you," Sam swears.

"I'm listening. You can get sappier than that, I know you can."

"You're really gonna let me say this?"

"Do the damn thing," Chuck tosses a hand in the air.

"You're my significant other and I'm in love with you."

"That's the shit I'm talking about," Chuck clutches his chest.

"Thanks."

"The pleasure is _all mine_."

«»

Chuck sits down with the first coffee of the day.

Missed call: Unknown.  
Sam's new number. He said he'd call.

He was in the shower ten minutes ago. That must have been when.

Chuck sets his glasses aside, dials, and closes his eyes.

"Hey."

"You better be half way to Oregon already," he demands. "I'm so tired of this shit."

"Can you be outside in twenty minutes with the power cord I left on the coffee table?"

Chuck's brain stutters to a halt.  
"Um. What?"

"The black power cord that's on the coffee table. Unless you tossed it somewhere."

"What do you mean twenty minutes?" his heart speeds up. He is not even attempting to smother the hope that blooms there.

"I gotta go, we're getting back in the car. Twenty minutes. Be out front. Got it?"

"G-got it, uh, yeah, got it," he gets up, rounds the couch, snatches the cord off the table. "Anything else?" Literally _anything_ else??

"Eat breakfast. Drink your coffee."

"Are you PHYSICALLY going to be in my presence in twenty minutes? Is this really happening? You're swinging by to get this thing and-"

"Yeah. Eat something and chill out 'till I get there. Gotta go."

He hangs up.

Jesus. What food can even be eaten in twenty fucking minutes? Compared to weeks of absence, that's like a fucking nanosecond. He is freshly clean and nearly caffeinated but he's in a ratty shirt and he should have maybe at least trimmed his beard like _a little_ in the past week. Toast? Can toast be eaten that fast?

He shoves bread in the toaster and makes an aborted move toward his room. What if he packed a bag? Well, that's all fine and good. But if he demanded a place in the Impala, Dean could just keep rolling down the road. Should he really push it?

He can't decide. He can do what Sam told him, though. Caffeinating to try to rev his brain up.

He makes it through just half the coffee and half the toast before he hears the car purr through the parking lot.

He grabs the power cord up from the counter and steps out into the rising sun to squint for a glimpse of the Impala.

When Dean pauses diagonally across some parking spaces, Castiel gets out of the back first, hands a bag to Sam, then takes his place in the front passenger seat.

Chuck might not be able to handle this. This might be inappropriate. The neighbors are gonna complain. He might jump Sam right here. Dean will kill him. Cas will be all judgy.

Sam stops to say something through the window and Dean flips him off and Cas laughs.

Then he's walking up. Beaming at Chuck.

Sam gets to the front step and Chuck is suddenly just hanging off him, absorbing his _everything_. The warmth and the size, the way Sam's arms remove him from the world and hold him safe. His hands curve around Chuck as he wraps around him in return and thank god, _thank god_ his _hands_. He presses his face up into Sam's neck and can't even move.

"I won't make you," Sam assures him, knowing, "Come on, back inside," he pulls an arm away and waves back. Chuck can't see the Impala leave around Sam's frame, but he hears it rumble off across the complex.

"I'm gonna kiss your face," Chuck says.

Sam laughs and puts real effort into ushering him back into the apartment.

"I thought you needed this?" Chuck lets go and motions with the power cord.

But Sam shuts the door behind them and turns to Chuck, takes his face in his hands and kisses all over. Cheeks and nose and ears.

Chuck's brain is catching up to him. His heart rate is skyrocketing. "Wait. They left. Are you staying?"

"No. I mean, I can't. We're still heading out. Dean drove out of the way. I told him you needed help with your computer crashing, said you lost all your work and you were in panic mode. It might have been Cas's idea," he shrugs.

Sam tugs the cord out of his hand and tosses it aside.

"But, um. I'm actually here for a," he shrugs, "a quickie," he looks like he's gonna blush. He looks embarrassed.

Chuck doesn't process this fast enough. He's staring up at Sam, dumbfounded, so Sam descends and kisses him.

He gets as far as flattening Chuck against the wall and wedging a thigh between his knees before Chuck gets his bearings. Pulls back. Loosens his fingers because they were really tight in Sam's hair and he shouldn't tug that hard.

"They'll be back?"

"Yeah. And then-"

"How long?"

"We have an hour? Maybe?"

"Okay," Chuck says dazed. "Woah, that's enough time for like four quickies."

Sam narrows his eyes at him. "Or enough time to fuck you slow and then hold you for the rest of it because that's what I need right now."

Yes.

Chuck can work with this. He throws out a hand in invitation. "Shall we adjourn to the bedroom?"

Sam closes his eyes, a laughing smile, and steps back to dump his bag off his shoulder. Then he reaches forward and Chuck comes into his arms again, only to be hefted up and over Sam's shoulder and marched back to the room.

He can't help his pleased hum or the way he clings to Sam's back for stability.

Sam tosses him on the bed and that's pretty awesome. Then he tears through Chuck's clothes like a madman, runs a big hand down the naked center of him, then he's still dressed when he disappears into the bathroom. Chuck hears the water running and Sam picking through things. He finds the condoms and lube he left from last time, and comes back to climb up between Chuck's legs. "Love seeing you waiting here naked for me," Sam whispers.

He doesn't waste a single moment, he has a plan and Chuck is totally down with that. Sam kisses up the inside of Chuck's thigh from his car-wreck knee. Chuck tosses the heel of the other foot over his shoulder and shudders because Sam's clean, cool hands are there, thumb already smoothing down, parting him. Chuck can only really stare at the ceiling, growing hard, as Sam lubes his fingers and starts opening him.

When he shudders off the bed, hips thrusting out of his own control, Sam pushes him down and keeps him there. It happens again and Sam mutters, "Fuck. Fuck."

Chuck doesn't entirely understand how Sam's really attracted to him at that, you know, downward angle but there are creaks at the far end of the bed like he's driving his hips into the mattress while he works.

A tremor wracks through Chuck when Sam hooks two fingers and whispers, "You gotta calm down, Chuck. Sweetheart, you gotta relax a little for me."

Oh, god. That's it, that's the stupid name that was just gonna roll off his tongue the first time. The one he keeps coming back to. Chuck didn't know how natural it would sound if he got stuck in the same room with it. That's so unfair.

"Well, that's a problem," he manages, "I think I need you up here."

Sam obliges and Chuck closes his eyes, curls his arms over Sam's shoulders and dissolves into the kiss he offers.

"I don't think this is working," Chuck makes the mistake of saying when there are three fingers inside of him.

Sam goes rigid and stills completely. "You okay??"

"I mean. I meant the. We can't just. This can't be it. The only time in over a month. I can't do that anymore."

Sam's head crashes down beside him, relieved.

"Sorry," Chuck realizes on a huge delay exactly how that played.

"It's okay. Ready for more?"

"Yes. Beyond ready."

"Hey. You gotta open your eyes."

"But, I'm just gonna-"

"I know. But I have to see your eyes to tell if you're okay."

Chuck does and he pushes the hair behind Sam's ears and breathes. Says, "Four. Four."

"Okay," Sam doesn't go slow but he is thorough.

The stretch is good with four. He may need more time but he doesn't want it. He wants _them_ , now. To be the two of them having full-on sex in like the grindingest manner possible. He reaches down and stills Sam's hand. Holds his hand where it is, then moves his hips, fucking himself there on his own. Gasping because _it's fucking really good_ and that's Sam down there, opening him up.

Sam's the one closing his eyes this time and trying to keep a grip.

"Maybe get naked now," Chuck suggests, breath hiccupping out of him as his hips roll a little more against the intrusion.

Air shakes out of Sam and he pulls back, fingers coming out and soothing around Chuck's ass before he whips his shirt off and stands to the side, his belt rattling, hitting the floor.

"Condom condom...?" he chants to himself and situates back between Chuck's legs as he gets one open and on. "Tell me." And he repeats himself when he's finally bare everywhere and leaning over Chuck, his arms towering to each side. "Chuck? Tell me."

"I'm good here."

"You don't wanna turn over?"

"Try first and we'll see." Like, he understands, okay? He feels way old, he's not in the best condition, physically. Maybe can't pretzel into the best shape to fuck facing each other and make it deep, make it good, but goddamnit he's gonna try.

There's Sam's hand, slicking lube around him again, and then the blunt force of his cock. Chuck grips the back of Sam's head maybe too hard, but Sam just exhales and Chuck follows his lead and it's slow but good.

Sam gives him a few strokes before he pulls Chuck's leg around himself and goes for the grind, pumping his hips and Chuck discovers where English stops being of any use to him. The only words he knows anymore are "fuck" and "me" in various intonations.

Sam pauses at one point, breathing hard, breathing fast, and pulls Chuck's arms around himself, hikes his leg higher, and one hand wedges between the bed and the wall, gripping the mattress and angling down so he can pound harder and that's just fucking _it_. The neighbors can _absolutely_ hear the way Chuck is shouting and he's getting fully laid on a Tuesday morning.

It switches up from being relentless after a minute to being a slow in-out shove that Chuck can feel every inch of. Sam fights with the sheets for a second and gets his knees back under him, so he can let go of the grips he had keeping him up, and scoop Chuck's head in his hands, kiss the last of the oxygen out of him.

Chuck intends to say something when Sam lets his mouth go but a shuddering sob is all that comes out. Sam wraps around him and resituates his ass so he can tag deep, and there's basically no warning when it makes Chuck come, tight up against Sam's stomach. Things just go bright and his jaw locks up, silent, and the release, the sudden drop, results in this collapsing sort of moan. Pretty much zero control over himself at this point but that's okay. Sam's still got him.

Sam's hair is dampening with sweat, now. He's worked so hard. Everything sizzles out of Chuck's hearing and over the muffle he can only just hear Sam still driving their bodies together and Sam still breathing hard and Sam just starting to lose control over his voice. Just, "Wanted this, wanted this," over and over.

So Chuck decides it's his job to draw this out. Fuck the damn time limit. Sam _wanted_ this. _Sam wants him_.

He tenses in whatever ways he still can, fighting the need to go boneless and slip off, satisfied.

It's his job to kiss Sam until he can't concentrate. Until he loses his pace and has to build up rhythm again.

It's kind of a _monumental_ effort, and he starts realizing how sore he's getting, but he tightens his legs and draws his hands up Sam's sides and Sam's falling apart. "Oh god, oh yes, oh _fuck_." Soothes his hands up Sam's huge shoulders, back and over his arms and up again. The touching makes Sam chant frantically. Chuck holds his face and kisses him and there go his movements, unsteady.

Chuck goes one further.  
(He is seriously exhausted. But okay.)

He pushes Sam back and he means business. He pushes Sam until he's laying down and Chuck fully intends to ride on his lap, to remind him, but it doesn't exactly go to plan. He can barely move, barely hold himself up. But there's the glint of recognition in Sam's eyes and he's barreling through Chuck again, holding him up and sitting up and meeting his lips and needing Chuck across his lap like he did on the phone. His muscles all tense and he pulls Chuck's arms back around himself so he can drop his head to Chuck's neck and talk and kiss and shout into it. Holds Chuck down on himself as he's coming.

It sends off bolts all through Chuck but he can't do much about it. Losing his grip and losing the fight to stay vertical.

Sam lays him down, to the side, and tries to get ahold of himself, gulping breaths and shuddering hands on Chuck's back. He tries to ease out as carefully as he can. Chuck is still grabbing at the back of his head again by the end of it. Sam presses their foreheads together, gasps calming.

"Cool. Okay," Chuck says. "You need help?"

"I got it, I got it," Sam breathes, dealing with the condom and the sheets and then just kicking everything to the side and yanking Chuck against him. Both of them still buzzing, tiny thrills ticking the corners of their mouths up until Sam finally just laughs. "Yeah?"

"Definitely."

"Oh god, you're fucking incredible."

"I'm a mess," Chuck notes, smiling.

"We're a mess. It's great. It's my favorite part of the day."

"Good. Okay. Well, I meant that literally, but, yeah. Passing out now," Chuck just gives in and curls up and presses himself to Sam.

Sam takes him. Kisses the top of his head and secures the warm bands of his arms around Chuck.

He's pretty sure he can feel how happy Sam is in his fucking sleep.

«»

The light's weird.

The few slats of it that somehow never seem to be tamed by the blinds and shade are soft, like rain outside. Or like several hours have passed.

And Sam's wide chest is still right there in front of him.

His guts tighten in that way he used to get when he was late for class, or work, a billion billion years ago when he had daily obligations.

"Sam. What time is it?"

He'd hear if Dean busted down his front door or if either of their cells were ringing non-stop.

"Past lunch. We should eat."

"You only had an hour?" he wipes a hand down his face and he feels sloppy. Post-sex sloppy. But Sam's hand curves over his ass anyway, still touching and touching.

"I called and told him to just go. They'll be fine." He doesn't say anything for a while but then, "I'll catch up."

Okay. This is different.

"He didn't laugh at you for picking the booty call over-"

"I want to go on the hunt, I do. And I will. Just not at this exact moment. They're on it," Sam insists. He breathes. He pulls Chuck in like they're not already mashed together. "I didn't know you needed this more than me. You looked so fucking lonely when I walked up, it was like before. Like when I pulled you out of the diner. Being here? Feeling you? I can't leave you. It's not gonna work."

All the air rattles out of Chuck. "I think I'm going with you."

"I think you are, too."

"I don't know if I'll just be taking up space."

"Because I was filling up all that space in my motel room with the single bed with, yeah, just like _parties_ of people. You'll be such a drain on resources," he snarks. "I told Cas you needed me. He made something up to tell Dean, maybe-- I don't care. But you can pack some things and we'll head toward Oregon later. Just. Not right now. Right now, I need this. And you need this. And I haven't been prioritizing you. I'm sorry. I'm bumping you up, though. As of _right fucking now_."

"I've been alone before," Chuck shrugs, but not quite, still held in place.

"But you don't _have to be_ anymore. If you want to, it's one thing. But every damn day you had less to say to me. And then I walk up with you looking like-" Sam searches for the words. "You looked _stunned_. I touched you and I thought I might have to scrape you off the ground. I don't even wanna have to think about how you'd look if I left here without you."

He hadn't _felt_ stunned.  
He thought he was passing off a power cord and he'd see Sam in another, who knows? Two weeks? Month? He just wanted what little he could get while he had the time. He thought it would be weeks before Sam came back. Begging to come with wouldn't have worked. Just a touch was all he'd earned.

Then, an hour?  
An hour was a fucking gift.

"I never expected to have to do this."

"Do this?" Sam asks, confused.

"The Job."

"You don't have to."

He does, though. He does. He's sitting on top of a well of knowledge. Imbued with more than Bobby or Sam or Ash ever researched. It runs in his blood, even if he's not comfortable looking through it all the time.

The visions, the prophecy, they weren't just episodic pieces. They would eventually assemble themselves and _flow like life_.

Like regular dreams, he would think that days had passed and wake up just hours later, scotch soaked into the couch from a spilled tumbler. It was huge and vivid and always weird, like dreams are. Sometimes it didn't always come through organized, seeing through so many eyes. Feeling such twisted shit. But when he'd sit to write it down, the holes would fill. Even if he's not the most skilled writer he would come back to fill in the gaps and explain what the story was telling him as best as he could.

And he'd re-read his stuff, sometimes, even after it was published. He'd realize he knew more than he even wrote down. He'd realize the research he'd done to add to the background had tainted the truth of things and thrown the pacing off. He's been kicking stray pieces of prophecy out of his way for years. Trying not to pick them up and see what they say.

There was so much input in the visions that his puny human mind could only process it in layers. And there's still stuff to dig through in there.

He's just been avoiding it.

It was all nice and clouded when he was still drinking.

He shakes his arm loose and thumps a hand into Sam's chest. "You've complicated my life something awful. You better have a good fucking reason," he gripes.

"I do," Sam gives him an extra soppy smile.

"Oh my god," he covers his face. "I walked right into that one."

Sam pries his hand away, of course.  
Sam kisses him, of course.  
Sam says, "I love you," of fucking course.

"You're not terrifying at all, no wonder people always tie you to chairs."

"Speaking of tying people to chairs," Sam sighs.

Chuck shakes his head, frees his other hand and scoots up. Starts running his fingers through Sam's hair.

"Lunch time, man. Seriously," Sam says, despite the fact that he's closing his eyes.

"I haven't done this enough yet. Hold still."

Sam doesn't hold still. He angles his head into Chuck's hands.

"I need a shower, first, anyway. So do you. We're so gross."

"How abouuut... food first, then round two, then showers."

"God. See, I'm gonna have a problem keeping up with your athleticism," Chuck stretches and rolls a little. His ankles pop, his shoulders pop. Yeah, his ass is definitely sore. He frowns at the self assessment and brings his left leg back up around Sam.

"Your butt hurt?" Sam asks, smiling.

"Yeah. Kiss my ass."

"Okay. Can I eat first?"

"Eat my ass? Sure, go ahead."

Sam sighs and pulls away, climbs over Chuck even though his side of the bed is perfectly clear, and picks up his jeans. "Get up, I'm feeding you."

«»

After lunch, Sam supervises his packing.

They brush their teeth and then they make out because it sounds like a good idea with freshly-brushed teeth.

Before they know it, Sam is knocking his bags off the bed and grinding against him on the mattress.

He yanks Chuck's shirt off and his hands just span wide and go all across Chuck's back. Dipping into his hips and around his ribs and up his chest to his neck to seize him and kiss his mouth again.

"I can't believe I get to do this," he says, dazed and staring, just kneeling over Chuck, stroking big hands over him.

Chuck doesn't have anything to say to that. The most improbable thing in the world is that your favorite character of your own design pops out of the page, lives and breathes and dies and lives again, only to find you and drag you to safety and somehow love every dinged and dented inch of you.

He's gonna plug away at this for the rest of his life. At deserving that look and that awe. He's going to assault Sam with it at every turn; he's going to rub it into his skin until some of it absorbs: that he's wonderful and selfless and more people should love him this deeply.

If they decide not to? Chuck's gonna take it all for himself. He feels no generosity for the ever-present loom of The Brother. Dean's had a long time to be Sam's family.

"My turn," Chuck says aloud, not exactly meaning to.

"'Kay. For what?" Sam's arms draw out, his hands meet Chuck's and pull them up. He places Chuck's hands under his own shirt and Chuck gladly takes the opportunity to wander.

He's gonna request that Sam take the shirt off, but his eyes go heated and far away again and then he's kissing into Chuck's neck and mouthing everywhere. His hands are back and he pushes at Chuck's pants until he can get a hand inside.

"I donno if I can do this twice in a day," Chuck warns, because, yeah, he's getting there, he's got a semi, but he's also abused his stupid body and sometimes it doesn't work right. It doesn't always respond properly.

Sam just unbuttons his pants and slides to the floor and very patiently sucks him off until he's clawing at the sheets.

At some point, he stops holding Chuck's hips down. And Chuck tries to be nice about it, he really does. But then Sam's fingers come down, light on his sides and it feels like encouragement.

Sam lets him lose control a little, rolling his hips up, and he just takes it. Has to pause and breathe a little, maybe, pull off, suck at the head, but then he lets his fingers play along Chuck's skin. Lets him let go.

He's definitely, seriously fucking close and his hands flash up to warn Sam. Sam just takes them. Puts Chuck's hands on the side of his face and yeah. He nearly curls to a sit as the orgasm is _pulled out of him_.

Too too too old for this shit. He doesn't say it but he thinks it. Because his hearing doesn't just go, the whole bedroom fuzzes the fuck out on him.

"I feel compelled to thank you for brushing your teeth."

"Suave. So smooth." Sam crawls up beside him and runs one wide hand up his center.

"I don't know what to say. I'm at a complete loss. I don't get to do this kind of thing. And um. Well," he looks down to check. "Yeah, you're still hard. So I think I should do something about that. I'm just completely blank on the 'how' right now."

Sam raises an eyebrow, slow, and looks off.

"Nooo," Chuck gives a breathless little laugh. "We have to drive really far and I'm already gonna be sitting on a well-used ass."

Sam reaches over and turns his head to kiss him again.

"Yes. I'm still coming with you to Oregon," Chuck says in answer to what he didn't mention.

Sam smiles and presses his face into Chuck's shoulder. "We should shower."

"Ah. Yes. I will gladly jerk you off in the shower for an in-person glance at your haircare routine."

"I can't fucking handle you," Sam says. Then he seems to lose himself in thought.  
"Wait a minute." He goes perfectly still. "You've seen me. In the shower. In the visions... Everything?"

Chuck looks away slowly. Guilty.

"How about this," he offers, his voice thin. "Time me. And you can decide if that's too creepy based on how fast I get you off. And whether you care about that by the end."

Sam considers this. "So, you've seen-"

"So much. Too much. Don't wanna talk about it. Do want you to carry me to the shower and come on me."

Sam twitches.  
Then he throws his shirt off, across the room.

Chuck just has to lay there and smile and wait for Sam to yank his pants off and cling when his arms are drawn around Sam's shoulders.

Sam spans his hands down his back again as he carries him, sets him to stand. He kisses Chuck's shoulder and his mouth and backs him up against the tiles, devouring.

"The knob does that weird thing," he reminds Sam when he turns to start the water.

"I know. I remember." He adjusts the temperature and everything. "I live here, now. I can handle it."

"It's a little inappropriate to just wanna hug you with a boner like that."

Sam turns to smile at him, then pulls him into the water with him. Chuck slides his hands down and just touches Sam's skin for a while.

"I'm timing you?" Sam asks, voice edging out a little, caught up in his breath.

"If you can concentrate, but you won't be able to."

"Cocky son of a bitch."

"Have you noticed, lately? That it turns out we just want the same things?" Chuck asks, looking up through the water at Sam.

Sam dips in to soak his hair and thinks about it for a second. Chuck accepts the kiss when it comes and lets his hands wander.

"I guess... I mean. I guess we're doing this right," Sam says, shrugging.

"I think we found it."

"Yeah," Sam smiles.

"Come down here," Chuck says, "this is how I'm gonna do it. Ready?"

Sam gives him an odd look but still smiles, still leans down to kiss him.

Chuck's touch is light, trailing from Sam's thighs, up and over. Sam's hands come up to skim Chuck's arms as Chuck begins to stroke him. Light, still.

And so Sam keeps kissing him sweet and the water's falling all around them.

Chuck pulls away a little to speak quietly, just over the sound of the shower, "Love you."

Sam's hands find his neck again and draw him in. Still Chuck mostly just holds Sam in his hand, rolling his thumb here and there. Chuck pulls his mouth away again to say, "Stay with me? Here with me?"

Sam nods, can't find his voice.

Chuck's hand, tight but easy on Sam's cock.

"Love you," Chuck repeats. "Don't go anywhere without me anymore."

Sam leans a hand on the tile wall.

"I've been wanting this for so long. For years, Sam. To take this off your hands. To do this for myself. So you don't have to be alone anymore."

Both hands on the wall, now, boxing Chuck in. Breath coming sudden and hard.

"Oh my god," his voice shakes out of him. "You're here. I'm _touching_ you," he marvels. "Kiss me?" Chuck asks, low and pleading.

The snap is immediate. Sam collides with him, flat-out conquers his mouth, and only breaks away to gasp, to drop his head to Chuck's neck and ride on his palm just a few short thrusts more. He pulls Chuck against him, coming across his hands and stomach and tremoring like wild.

Sam can't even speak until after, until he finally pulls in a breath and an, "Oh _god_ ," is ripped out of him.

Chuck just calmly rinses off. He's having a hard time getting enough distance from Sam to do so properly, but he grabs the soap anyway and washes their hands, one by one. Sam keeps grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him in to kiss his face.

"Hair, Sam," he quietly reminds him.

Sam takes the soap out of his hands and sets it aside. Pulls him in for a deep and drugging kiss.

"You first."

"I'm gonna end up looking like some kind of mermaid princess if you do my hair. I'm not ready for that level of magic."

«»

He makes Sam sit on the bed in his boxers, then digs through Sam's bag for bandages. There's the spear wound on his calf. Well. _Through_ his calf. Sam takes the old bandage off and they clean either side of the wound, right and left, and then Chuck wraps it back up again. It's been long enough, it's doing pretty well, the skin just looks irritated. It would heal faster if Sam weren't running around so much.

"Itches," Sam makes that squirmy kid face he makes.

Chuck squints up from the floor, considering.

Then he digs his fingers underneath Sam's knee and almost gets kicked in the face tickling the shit out of him.

"THAT IS THE MOST DANGEROUS KNOWLEDGE YOU HAVE!!" Sam yells, tripping and stumbling away.

Chuck spends so much time on the floor laughing that Sam threatens to toss him in the trunk with the rest of the luggage.

«»

He pats the coffee machine as he walks by to snap off the lights. "Don't burn the house down."

"Did you just say goodbye to your coffee machine?"

"Am I driving?"

Sam just holds his hand out for the keys. Chuck doesn't mind. He hands them over and Sam tugs him out of the apartment. It's almost sunset by now. He tells Sam to go on ahead because he knows he has to move the seat all the way back and adjust the mirrors, but Sam only waits and grabs all three bags and carries everything to the parking lot, keeping pace with Chuck.

After dumping the bags in back, he casts a critical eye on the tires, the new front bumper. A process Dean programmed into him. Chuck knows how this works -- thanks to Dean's knowledge he knows how cars work through and through. But he still pays someone else to change his oil. It would be far more humiliating to miss something important and find himself on the side of the road than to admit he lets professionals handle his cars.

"Oh, you've got the fake credit," Chuck perks. "It's a good thing I didn't pay real money to fill up the tank yesterday. Thanks," he says as Sam holds the door open for him. "So gallant."

Sam's quieter than he has been. Chuck remembers the last time they talked about his car's new parts was.

The fight.

When Sam's all adjusted and after he starts the car, Chuck reaches over and pulls his head down and needs a fucking kiss. Just needs it. Just has to banish the association, even if Sam's mind might not be in the same place. This car is Chuck's prize for saving Sam from a vampire. It's proof that he won't be totally useless when they get to Oregon. It's okay. He's not a burden. Sam needs him as much as Chuck needs Sam. They're _in it_ now. No more phone calls. His hands are right here. They're so important and any time he needs to, he can reach for them.

Sam ends it by kissing his forehead. "Tell me one more time you're okay with this."

"I'm totally fine with this. I brought a suit and everything."

"It might not just be suits and research," Sam warns.

"I won't go looking for a fight unless you're there to restrain me from murdalizing everybody in the room because fuck knows how much monsters fear me."

"Okay," Sam smiles and after they're out of the parking lot, he holds Chuck's hand on the center console.

«»

I-29 to 36 west. Sam wants to stop at the bunker before going on.

Chuck feels him building up to it for a long time before he actually speaks. They stop at a restaurant and eat and still, Sam doesn't say anything until they're on the last hour of the stretch to Lebanon. "We could sleep there. Keep going after we get some rest."

Sam wants to be with his brother. He wants to be hunting. He's also trying to settle his life around this new thing. Around Chuck. This is gonna take practice. Balance.

Chuck shrugs. "If you wanna take turns driving, we can do that. Or if you wanna get half a night of sleep and then head out again. Those are options."

Sam considers. "Yeah, those are options."

"I think the in-between one would be getting four, five hours. And then driving some more."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." His eyes slide to the side to take Chuck in for a minute. And then back to the road.

Sam clenches his jaw and then seems to consider something else. But he doesn't say what.

"How far behind are we, anyway?"

"They already stopped for the night. It's a long drive. Kind of awful. They'll be there tomorrow."

He's trying to put a name or a memory to the expression Sam's wearing.

"Don't let me dictate what happens here," Chuck says. "I know a lot but I don't know how things have been _lately_. If you think the stuff I say is stupid, I kinda need to know. My knowledge base is a little dated."

"Our car is 48 years old. We listen to tapes. We hit things when they don't work right. Our whole shtick is dated. I think it'll be refreshing to have a new voice around, honestly."

«»

He learns what the look was for when they get to the bunker. Sam fumbles with the key to the door, seems hazy walking down the stairs, and then hesitates in front of his bedroom door.

But then, after he shuts them in and drops the bag he brought, he turns to Chuck, eyes heated, and barrels into him. He yanks off Chuck's shirts between kisses and then his own even though he knows-- he _must_ know-- that it's kind of been a REALLY FULL DAY for Chuck and if he has to spare the blood to get it up one more time, he'll probably pass out.

Sam, however, is some kind of superman and he's already half-hard in his jeans.

Chuck yanks back eventually to breathe and Sam only takes the opportunity to press him into bed.

"You're gonna be flying solo on this one," he warns.

"No, I'm not," he steps on the heels of his shoes, kicks them off and then gets up and straddles Chuck in the middle of the bed. "I just need this," he says like an apology.

Chuck nods. "Okay." Puts his hands to Sam's knees. "Okay."

Sam arranges him. He puts a pillow under his head. Then he changes his mind. Gets up and takes his jeans off. Yanks at Chuck's shoes and Chuck opens his pants so he can take those, too. Then, when Sam's satisfied with how Chuck is arranged, he comes back up and makes out with him until Chuck has to turn his head and yawn.

He places two more too-sweet kisses above Chuck's eyes, then gets off of him to move the sheets, turn off the lamp, and set an alarm.

Chuck curves his back into Sam when he settles. Like they've been doing this a million years. Like it hasn't only happened a dozen times so far. Sam's arm stretched out under the pillows, the other holding Chuck snug against him. The sheets up to their bellies because Sam's warm enough to heat them both.

The pillows smell like Sam and Sam smells like mint shampoo and gunpowder and books.

Chuck loses his damn mind.

"How did I get here? I don't even care. I'm gonna stay forever. You're gonna need explosives to get rid of me."

Sam turns him over and hushes him, pulls Chuck to his neck and strokes his back until he falls asleep.

«»

Chuck blinks awake at the alarm and reaches over Sam to hit snooze. Sam settles him back down and falls asleep again. Chuck's up, though. And spends his time stroking fingers through Sam's hair.

Sam gets the alarm the second time and comes back in to pull Chuck's leg up around himself and say, "I like you here."

He's pretty sure Sam means _in his bed_ not in this physical arrangement, but Chuck likes both. He hugs Sam's head. "4 a.m. You ready? I can drive. You can sleep more in the car."

Sam doesn't respond. He just runs his hand up Chuck's thigh.

"Or. We could keep sleeping."

"Or," Sam says. "It's not gonna be this quiet in the bunker again. Normally Dean's next door."

"I think you just wanna fuck me in your bed."

Sam rolls his hips into him. So that's a yes.

"You know, if we get to Oregon and more bad stuff has happened, you're all gonna be huffy about it and angry you didn't get there faster and all ready to feel guilty and shit."

Sam's breath gusts over him and he's moving, now, to reach over Chuck and turn on the lamp.

"We can live our lives," he rubs at his eyes. "Bad shit happens all the time. Everywhere."

"Well, I know that. I know _you_ know that, academically. But once you guys have your mind set on getting someplace, you tend to entirely adopt it as your responsibility."

Sam unfolds from around him and lays back. "True," he eventually admits.

"But."

"But?"

"You save the world a lot. Like a lot a lot. And I don't actually want all the responsibility on your shoulders, even if you're willing to take it. So I'm of two minds on the matter. I don't ever feel responsible for these things and I know you do just because you've decided to. Also. Maybe I wanna get fucked on your bed just a little bit."

"I don't know if I can get away with fucking you _just a little bit_."

"I meant that I want that, but it doesn't outweigh how much I value your mental health."

"Thank you," Sam says.

"You're welcome," Chuck says.

"There are condoms in the drawer next to you, you mind?"

"One more thing before we're naked."

"The floor is yours."

"Cas generally decides to cure you of your most prominent ailments when he fixes you up. If you want a totally clean bill of health, you have to ask for it."

"O...kay."

"So I mean, that's why he hasn't healed your spear wound, because you didn't ask for it."

"I was wondering about that. He saw me limping. I guess I just keep thinking he's a bit of a bastard."

Chuck shakes his head. "Dean told him some bullshit about character building once and so he doesn't do that unless it's necessary. This is also useful for other stuff," he points out. "Like where I wouldn't have to go get tested and you wouldn't have to go get tested and we could just ask Cas to clear our systems so-"

"I have no idea how we're gonna have that awkward conversation, but we are _going_ to have that awkward conversation!!" Sam says, his hands up in revelation.

"So condoms until then, but."

"As soon as the awkward conversation is over, we don't have to!"

"We go back to my apartment and... get our fuck on," Chuck shrugs.

"I am now looking forward to this awkward conversation."

"Okay. So no more talking about other people. Now we can get naked," Chuck confirms.

"First order of business," Sam digs through the opposite drawer. Chuck digs through the one on his side. He's successful first, so he shucks his boxers and scoots back over.

"Are we gonna do this _again?_ " Chuck feels compelled to ask out loud. "I never get laid this much."

Sam unearths the lube at last and turns back around to him. He hesitates. "Are you too worn out? I mean. Just because I want to doesn't mean we have to."

"No, nah. I got some sleep, I'm okay. I donno. I guess I'm out of shape. Well, I mean, I _know_ I'm out of shape-- HEY. Hey, can I watch you do pull-ups some time?" He wants to watch his back muscles, his arms.

Sam pauses in kicking his underwear off. "Uh. Yeah. Sure."

"Damn. Nice. Holy shit, you look good," he rambles, watching Sam push apart his legs and stalk up between them.

Sam doesn't stop until they're face-to-face, close and kissing.

"Can you do something for me?" he asks.

Chuck shrugs. "Just put me where you want me. I like that part."

"Oh. Right. Sorry, I'm still getting the hang of that."

"It's alright," he pets his head. He doesn't say _I trust you_ because that would freak him right out at this exact moment. "Where am I going?"

"Uh. Okay. So it's not so much _doing_ as _saying_ ," he pushes his arms under Chuck's back and holds him.

"Ah, you've struck upon one of my few talents!"

"Many talents."

"What can I do for you?"

"Well," Sam hesitates. "It's not. It's not the healthiest. It's um," he grimaces slightly.

Chuck narrows his eyes and watches closely. Sam resituates, his hands cupping Chuck's ass as he does, then pushing back up his back as he settles closer, his cock pressing in against Chuck. He doesn't just lay on top of him or drop down and grind. Sam's doing that careful thing that makes him feel cared for. Like if he just decided to fall back to sleep, Sam would only turn them over and let Chuck rest against him, sleep at his chest.

He puts his hands to Sam's face because he gets it. "Like in the shower," he prompts, voice quiet.

Sam's head wavers a little. Eyes slide to the side, skipping over the objects in his room.

Ah. Okay.

Chuck does something he's been meaning to, curves his fingers light over Sam's lips, then presses a finger in. Sam holds it between his teeth and licks once. Sucks once.

"Only _you_ are allowed to be here," Chuck says, then squeezes his legs, drawing Sam closer.

Sam gasps and presses himself tight to him. Chuck keeps his hand over Sam's mouth to feel him breathe. So Sam tastes him on every heavy inhale. So Sam can have his mouth on him without otherwise occupying Chuck's.

"Your bed is gonna smell like us," Chuck muses.

A long breath shakes out of Sam. Chuck retrieves the lube from where Sam dropped it and hands it over. He lets go of Sam's face, lets him concentrate for a minute. As soon as Sam's got shaking fingers smoothing over him, starting to press, Chuck lifts Sam's chin to look at him again.

"That's yours, too."

Sam bolts upright, squeezes his eyes shut and grips the base of his cock, focusing. He swallows hard and breathes. It takes a while before he can settle down on top of Chuck again, fingers picking up where they left off. He pushes one finger in and Chuck locks up a little. Sam moves forward between his legs and kisses him. "You're okay."

He doesn't have much breath to say it, but he inhales, shaky, and tries, "'Course I am. I'm with you. You're gonna feel so good inside me. So hot. Like you belong."

"Sh _it_."

Chuck forces himself to ease up by grabbing at Sam's shoulders, the most stable thing he can think of. He puts his grip into that and makes his body relax. Sam's head touches down against his and he starts easing in and out of Chuck. Two, soon enough, and still working.

"I love it here," Chuck gasps. "You were so right. So right. I fit right into your life."

"God," Sam grits out through his teeth.

"Gonna stay here," his eyes are locked on Sam. "Not gonna look away. Not gonna _go_ away. I can't be far from you anymore," he's interrupted by his own gasp, Sam pulling his hand away and crashing his head to the pillow next to Chuck, trying to hold himself together again.

That's about as good as they're gonna get before this is over without any real action. Chuck presses a packet into Sam's hand. He fumbles with it, opens it, and Chuck scoots. He lines himself up with Sam and takes his head in his hands until he opens his eyes again. "Now, okay?"

Sam nods and swallows harsh, moaning as he looks down, gripping himself and pressing in.

"Hey," Chuck grabs his attention again. "Don't let anybody else touch me. Just you."

Sam nails Chuck so hard that he's _useless_ afterwards.

Chuck has no idea what comes out of his mouth while it's happening but it would probably be borderline disturbing to him if Sam wasn't inside him, claiming him, being driven fucking wild by it.

After, Sam picks Chuck up and drapes Chuck over himself, hands everywhere. Touching every part of him, possessive, sweeping his hands over parts of Chuck he only ever washes in the shower. And Chuck can't do anything about it but breathe out tiny moans.

His hearing comes back when Sam's mid-sentence and he asks to have all his praises repeated because he missed some.

"Your hearing goes out after you orgasm? I read about that once."

Chuck talks into his chest, "What did you read?"

"It might be a blood pressure thing or an inner-ear thing. We don't have to worry about you until you get dizzy or your hearing goes for too long."

"Is five minutes too long?"

"I don't know. I think it said an hour. How long does it normally happen for?"

"Three minutes. Maybe. I don't know. It's been a lot more frequent since you came around. It doesn't happen every time. Just. I guess. When it's intense."

"I'll do new research on it," Sam shrugs, "I'd be proud of myself but I kinda need you to be able to hear me."

"I kinda need you to never stop talking," he is enjoying the vibration of speech in Sam's chest.

"I think whatever I've got can come from books," Sam says, wry. "The books don't exist if you stop talking, though. I need you to never stop with all that absurdity you babble."

"Okay, _now_ you stop."

"Too soppy?"

"A flamethrower couldn't dry you out."

"Speaking of drying out," Sam says after some hesitation, "your sober anniversary is coming up."

"No fucking way," Chuck marvels. "Well. It doesn't count anyway. I fucked up in September, remember?"

Sam shrugs under him. "No, it counts. It's when you decided to change that matters."

"I hate your perpetual optimism. It makes it too easy to fall in doe-eyed love with you, you goddamn sap."

"Chuck? Did, um. Why did you. Why did you say 'okay' when I asked?"

Chuck pets Sam's side in long loops, looking at the difference in skin tone. "You asked," is all he says.

"No one ever. I mean. You never had anyone even question it?"

"No one around to care. I don't think my family even woulda cared if they had known. I learned how to self-medicate from my parents, after all. And? _Everybody in my family went to Penn State_."

"Wow. So, only sober person in your entire family, then."

"Basically. Because you asked."

"Just... just because I asked?"

"Because the guy I admire most in the whole world asked me to do something, yeah," Chuck lifts his head. "I said yes to you. I wouldn't have put that effort in for anybody else. I wouldn't voluntarily go through that amount of pain. I like you. And I wanted to do something that made you think well of me. I wanted you to be able to... have some little success in me. And if that meant I got to be your friend," he shrugs, shakes his head. "Bonus. That's all I could figure."

Sam goes wide-eyed and dazed. "Well, I was gonna try and get you to get the tattoo but now it feels like a complete manipulation."

"It's not. I know I'll have to get it. I don't want to. But I'll do it and get it over with and you'll take care of me for a few days and it'll be a nice exchange. Like getting to be your friend after detoxing. It's worth it."

Sam closes his eyes. "How the fuck did this happen?" he wonders in a very Chuck-like fashion.

Chuck puts his hand to Sam's head, pretends to measure out their height difference. "Opposites attract?"

Sam is less reluctant to leave bed after he's indulged in his possessive little fantasy.

Really, though, Chuck was _more than happy_ to help. He gets to sleep some more in the car and Sam wakes him up for breakfast, first requesting a full status report.

Chuck never bought into the idea of the "good ache" you get from things like exercise. But this is a good ache. His legs kill right now from the way Sam bent them back, going deep, but all of it is a good ache like he's never felt before with anyone. Not even that one time a girl kneed him in the head while he was eating her out because she was losing control so bad.

Come to think of it, sex hasn't been a complete _pleasure_ like this in a long time. Maybe not since his first serious girlfriend. More like a duty to his body or an itch to scratch or a distraction. But he finds himself expecting that he'll get used to it. To being bent and stretched in new ways. Based on the past day, he kind of expects Sam to just grab him and hump him to sleep whenever they're left alone. Which is fine. He likes having Sam inside himself. This is quality fucking.

"What if I climbed on your back?" he asks upon getting out of the car.

"Might hurt your legs more," Sam smirks because this whole thing is making him deservedly smug.

"So you're telling me you don't wanna do it?"

Sam shrugs. Pockets the keys, and leans back in front of Chuck. Sam gets a good firm grip on his legs and Chuck hooks his shoes and his arms around him and they're alright. Sam marches them up to the diner.

"I'm gonna hurt your back, eventually."

"Only if I succeed in making you eat more than coffee two out of three meals per day and that seems pretty unlikely at this point," his voice is only a little strained.

"You're really good at this."

"I get the most fucked up sense of satisfaction about it, to be honest. It's probably a straight-up caveman thing."

"Well, I like it. I like that you can handle me."

"Well, I noticed," Sam knocks his head into Chuck's a little, "I like that you let me." He knees into the front doors and drops Chuck down in front of the hostess stand.

"Two please," Chuck says to the woman.

Her mild annoyance is all the displeasure that the rest of their weird road trip affords.

«»

Sam points to room 17 and says, "Yeah. Open the door," into his phone.

Chuck stands in front of the door.

Sam rolls his eyes. "The password is 'dig the last two feet of the next grave yourself and good luck climbing out,' Dean."

Dean opens the door. "Harsh," he says, and hangs up his phone.  
He stares Chuck down. "You brought your accessory."

"Accessory to murder if you play your cards right," Chuck dares to push past him into the room.

Dean sputters behind him and he doesn't care. He's had to piss for like the last two hours.

"Hi, Cas," he says in passing, and catches only a glimpse of Cas's new wide-eyed 'What the fuck is going on in this world and why am I involved?' look.

When he gets back out of the bathroom, Sam is sitting on Dean's bed flipping through a spell tome.

"Oh, no, go right ahead, make yourself at home," Dean gestures between Chuck and the room at large, which he assumes is the tail end of some kind of joke nobody cares about. So, even though Cas's bed is closer and mostly unused as he only sits on it instead of sleeping, Chuck shrugs and rounds the room to sit next to Sam. On Dean's bed.

Dean throws up his hands.

"So, what, is he hunting, now, too? Jesus, remember when there was a grand total of two of us doing this at any given time?"

Chuck doesn't have to look across the room to feel Castiel's narrow eyes slide over to scorch Dean.

"That worked out real well," Sam mutters, "we only ended the world like five and a half times."

"Seriously. What the fuck is he doing here? We didn't even let Charlie come and she can dual-wield."

"Charlie booked a hotel down the road, she'll be in town in a few hours," Castiel drops this truth bomb as casually as one might brutally stab a Roman dictator in an alley.

At a loss, Dean flounders.  
And then just turns toward the kitchenette.

"So, details," Sam says. "What's happened since you've been in town?"

"Nothing. It's been disturbingly quiet," Cas says.

Chuck turns on the bed and finds the article that brought them here printed out, penciled all over in all three of the guys' handwriting. Chuck digs his glasses out of his pocket and picks it up to read.

Three strings of bodies so far. Six killed the first time. Four the second. Eight most recently. No connections between the victims except one in the first string and one in the third. A husband and wife. Many of the dead were also former residents of Portland, but shared no professions or addresses.

It takes deep research to deal with connecting victims. Chuck moves on.

The bodies themselves were not curiosities, rather what was left with and on the bodies.

They're mauled and mutilated, and jagged, razor-edged dog teeth were sometimes broken off in the flesh. Local cops are inclined to think this is some sort of gang payback for gambling debts. Maybe a dogfighting ring. From the bite patterns, three different dogs helped to kill 16 of the vics. 

From Dean's scrawls, he's inclined to blame Crowley for some new hellhound breeding program. This many bodies dropping at once, you figure maybe their deals are all coming due around the same time.

But while some of the vics have a certain amount of personal and financial success, a few publicized strokes of good luck, not a one of them are wildly rich or popular or well-placed.

Two of the vics in the second set were not mauled at all. Their throats were opened and coins were placed on their eyes. He's disgusted to read the language in this article: the "girls were attractive" so the cops just assume this is remorse of some kind. Dead bodies of women still judged for merit based on appearance. Real fucking nice.

All of them also had stains on their lips. Red but not like they'd bled from the mouth or like lipstick had been applied. More like they'd been forced to inhale ink.

Chuck doesn't want to be thinking what he's thinking.

Dean and Cas take turns detailing the lives of more of the victims, catching Sam up.

Chuck tugs at the strap of the bag Sam still has slung across himself. He only glances to Chuck before he removes it and hands it over, still asking, "How do we get our hands on the coins, though? Those are the anomaly."

Chuck takes the bag and pulls Sam's laptop up and out, wakes it up.

He looks through Sam's bookmarks for the Department of Agriculture and starts a search in a separate tab. Weather reports in another.

But it's not demon omens he thinks he's gonna find. He checks for those and confirms none have popped up.

What _has_ popped up is basically everything else.

We're talking acres and acres of crops that still shouldn't have a hope of breaking the earth for a few months yet.

Locals are inclined to blame GMOs. They think super seeds from last season have taken over their lands and are in talks with Monsanto to investigate and take action.

The weather isn't even seasonally conducive to this kind of thing. Local temps are up four degrees from the monthly average, but that's not enough to prompt this kind of rapid growth.

Sam gets up and starts pacing as Dean explains the few connections they're trying to tie everyone together with.

Chuck wants to see the coins, too, but he thinks he knows where this is going.

"Other than the way they died and the coins, any other connection between the two women?" he asks Cas.

He shrugs. "We can't find records on them or the first victim in the first string."

"Can I see the stuff from the Portland people?" 

Dean hears this and finds a file on the table. He points to a green post-it note. "Those ones are from Portland."

"Thanks."

He returns to what he was saying to Sam.

As Chuck suspects, the Portland natives all come from the same side of town.

Cas joins in on discussing their options and Chuck just double-checks what he found by opening a lore file on Sam's desktop. Then he looks in his Google search. Local results for "poison." Only one report of a child getting sick but it's too close to the second string crime scene to discount.

He shuts the laptop and puts it back in the bag. Re-reads the article. He gets up and flips through a couple of the police reports. They're stupidly spare. Like the Feds must have already arrived and taken most the available info with them to their field office.

At a loss, so far, the Winchesters fall quiet, trying to formulate a course of action.

"Well, I found your problem," Chuck is able to announce, dropping to sit back on the bed.

All three of them turn to stare down at him.

Creepy.

He takes off his glasses and rubs at his right eye. "It's a god."

They just keep staring.

"It's not a cult, it's not demons, it's a god," he shrugs.

"Which one?" Cas sounds half-way between dubious and worried.

"Oh, gee, uh, I don't fucking know. Red marks that stain like blood but aren't blood? Poisonous flowers nearby. Miracle crops and dog teeth? You think maybe it's one dog with three heads and not three dogs with one each? And a she's treating her new tenants to a bit of Pom Wonderful before she brings them home. So they can never fucking leave. A charming host."

"I don't-" Cas starts.

"Persephone," Chuck tosses the papers aside. "Call the local CSI back and see if the autopsies are done. The stomach contents-"

"Pomegranate," Dean sighs, rolling his eyes at himself. "Damn. Yeah. I'm on it," he pulls his cell out of his pocket and heads outside, putting on an authoritative voice.

"We can likely confirm if she used coins from her own realm," Cas says. "I'll find a way of getting access to the evidence."

"Which hotel?" Sam asks Cas. "Charlie?"

"The Best Western three blocks over," Cas turns to start digging through the paperwork again.

Chuck puts his glasses away and Sam claims his hand, "C'mon." He tugs Chuck up. "We're gonna get another room," he tells Cas. "I'm gonna start digging for her location if you guys can find out her weakness."

Cas nods, distracted already, and Sam pulls Chuck outside.

Dean is pacing beside the car, still on the phone, barking about talking to supervisors and shit.

Sam gets them a king on the first floor, on the opposite side of the building. He picks up their bags and puts Chuck in charge of the room keys.

Once they're alone again, in their own space, now, he dumps the bags on the bed and comes in close. He puts a hand to either side of Chuck's head and massages lightly at first, then digging his thumbs in a little.

Chuck's eyes slide closed as a headache he didn't know he had starts fracturing and falling away. After a while, he sweeps his thumbs over Chuck's forehead. Presses his lips there for a long moment.

Chuck is leaning into his hands. His huge, warm, wonderful hands.

"Better?" Sam asks, quiet.

Chuck blinks. "You are so fucking beautiful."

Sam smiles, small and pleased. Kisses his forehead again. "And you're fucking brilliant. I have a question."

"Okay."

"This is a shitty question. I don't want to ask it."

"Go ahead. You can," he motions, "keep doing that while you ask."

Sam's smile is bigger. More sure. He digs his fingers into the back of Chuck's head and down to his neck.

"Do you want me to empty out the mini fridge and give it to Dean n' Cas?"

Ah. Booze. He's in a room with booze.

"Um. You should. Um."

Sam stops his fingers for a second so he can think.

He blinks back to the room.

"You should. Aw, man. Sorry," he clunks his head down against Sam's arm. "You should take it to the other room." He could sound less broken up about it. But that's about all the self-restraint he can manage at the moment.

Sam rewards him for it, anyway, and gives him kisses after working on his neck a little longer. He feels... he feels like he did pretty good. He feels. Weird. He feels smart and like he deserves these things. It's unfamiliar.

He realizes that this is what it feels like to be cared for by someone who has an actual investment in your wellbeing.

When he shifts out of Sam's hands to reach under his jacket and hug him, Sam only hugs back, curving over him, nose dug into his neck.

And he doesn't care what this makes him or what it looks like in Dean's eyes or what the common core standards are for starting relationships or whatever the fuck.

He's going to add to the sets of eyes watching Sam's back. He will protect Dean because Dean deserves to be protected and Sam needs him. He will support Cas because they're both wedging themselves in here, they both intend to be indispensable, and the alternative is fucking unthinkable. He will follow Charlie's lead into the family because she's got a better foothold and this is where he wants to be.

First and foremost, he announces, he is going to take a fucking nap.

"Another good idea," Sam says into his neck. He pulls back to kiss Chuck again and then lets him go. Grabs the bags and situates them around the room with a critical eye. He knows the flow of traffic around a motel room and where things will be most useful. He puts Chuck's stuff out for him while Chuck kicks off his shoes and takes most his layers off to worm under the covers. Sam plants another firm kiss on his head, pulls the sheets up over Chuck's shoulder. Then he empties the mini fridge, and digs a key from Chuck's jacket.

Chuck falls asleep once Sam isn't around for his eyes to follow anymore.

«»

Chuck wakes up some time later just lightly drifting toward reality. He hears the sounds of pages turning, the mouse clicking on the computer. Sam at the kitchenette table, behind him. If he grumbles he thinks maybe Sam will come to him, but he's lax and well-rested now. He could also roll over and keep sleeping until Sam makes him wake up to eat.

There's a buzz. Sam answers his phone almost at a whisper. "Yeah. Oh, um. 23. Other side. Right, yeah."

He gets up quietly to kick on his shoes and prop open the door.

"Yo. How come _your_ phone works in your room? I keep having to-"

"Keep it down," Sam says.

"Why does he get to sleep?"

" _Shut up_. Outside."

He can hear Sam struggle into a jacket and usher Dean away.

"Must be nice," Dean continues.

Sam pulls the door closed half way. "He's not used to the long haul in the car. And he already figured out what we're hunting for us."

"So basically you're gonna spend the whole time coddling him. Pretty much what I thought."

"No one's coddling anyone."

"He ain't built for this, Sammy. I thought you'd just hang out with him for a day or something. I wasn't expecting to have to deal with your boyfriend bullshit on a daily basis. We've got a bloody, messy fuckin' job to do here."

Sam is strangely careless in the face of Dean's protests. A creak as he settles against the old wood of the door frame. "So basically you're gonna pretend the whole time like Chuck hasn't seen more than we have? Pretty much what I thought," he casually challenges.

"He hasn't been in the shit and you know it."

"He decapitated a vampire we spent a week even trying to find."

"So no reasoning with you, still. No, that's great. Your little crush had you fucking distracted the whole past month-"

Sam laughs, light.

"What, you don't think so?"

"It's not just a crush," Sam says and finishes dumping all the remaining meaning into the silence after.

Nothing but the sound of shifting feet.

"Well," Dean says after a while, "you could do better."

Sam snaps the door shut.

Chuck can't hear what they say out there but he knows the strain of their voices. The tone. Hissing at each other. Sam angry and trying not to yell.

He really doesn't want to hear yelling right now.

This is fucking idiotic.

It's also slightly stupid that he pulls the sheets in around himself and lets the truth of the statement burn within him for a while. Because Dean's not wrong.

Chuck listens with his eyes shut tight. He can hear an occasional word but he can't string it together. Something about Cas. Something about a book. Something about the car?

Things tone down eventually.

After lectures from both sides.

Sam creaks the door back open some. Cold air floats in.

"We will, in a while. Charlie here yet?"

Dean grumbles.

"Get fucking used to it," Sam is probably rolling his eyes.

"If he-" Dean starts, but Sam interrupts him.

"You know what? I was supposed to do this a while ago." And there's the sound of fabric.

Dean's slightly muffled. "Um. Okay."

A sound like being patted on the back then Sam drops his voice so he can open the door further and step in for a second.

"That's from Chuck," he says, matter-of-fact.

"Why would Chuck hug me?"

"He wouldn't. He told me to do it." Sam retrieves something and moves back outside, pulls the door back most the way. "He said I had to hug you and let you off the hook for the Becky thing because you wouldn't take anything seriously from him. Even if he likes you and he doesn't want me to abandon you just because I have a 'side-story' now. He wanted you to know that nobody's gonna get abandoned or left behind just because we pull other people closer."

Dean is speechless.

"So there's that. But. You know. _Obviously_ he has no idea how this family works," Sam seems to be throwing the words back in Dean's face.

Sam takes a breath. "He's not inept. He knows how the job works. He's probably in a better position to handle research than Bobby was. And he might not have practice but he's probably gonna be okay in a fight."

Dean snorts.

"And I'm in love with him so it's a package deal."

He lets that sit heavy in the air for a second.

"I've been trying to let you adjust to the idea slowly, for a while now. He's right: I'm not gonna abandon you. Nobody's going away never to be seen again. It's just that sometimes we gotta change. If I don't get to pull him into my life right now, Dean? I'm gonna lose it. I'm not gonna remember why I'm getting my ass kicked every day and I'm gonna get lonelier until I'm some drunk fucking _gun_ just stalking the world. I don't wanna end up that way. I wanna make an actual difference. He's been." Sam stops. "I needed a new direction. Not just _down_."

The implication that Chuck is Sam's new magnetic north rolls heavy in his chest. He feels the way he's tight on his side and he wants to throw his arms wide, spanning the bed and let the wind in from outside to freeze him so solid that Sam could use him as an igloo. Just climb inside and find shelter, find _home_ whenever he needs to in his great, wide, nomadic life.

Dean is uncomfortable. Clears his throat but doesn't deny anything. Just changes the subject to what him and Cas dug up about Persephone.

Chuck was right about the victims' stomach contents. On those corpses which still had stomachs intact, analysis showed the pomegranate seeds they were forced to eat were from a variety long thought extinct. It's good enough for them to start calling the weekly baddie by her name.

They don't know how to kill her or why she's picked these people, specifically. Given some of them coins for the boatman and not others.

"We need to find out what her deal is. Why she suddenly needs the souls or whatever. And if she's got that dog..." he trails off. Clears his throat. "Well, maybe Chuck knows more of the lore about the dog. Dogs. How we deal with it. Them? Is it an 'it' or a 'them' if it's one thing with three heads?"

"Grammar question. That's Chuck's department, too," Sam says, a smile in his voice. "I'll dig some more. We'll come over and put our heads together over dinner, huh?"

"I'll come get you guys when Charlie gets here, yeah."

They step away with the door closed again. For a while.

Chuck can't hear them. He breathes deep for a few minutes.

Dean doesn't like him because of this. Because he thinks Chuck is stepping between him and his brother. He was okay with them being friends, but now Dean doesn't like him.

He likes Dean enough that that hurts.

Nothing will prove to Dean that Chuck isn't a meddling little fuck unless Sam stays at the bunker.

That isn't what Sam and Chuck want for themselves right now. They want their own space for a while.

Without outside interference, their priorities are gonna start beginning with Dean and that's not okay. Family is one thing. Third-wheeling is another.

He might have to play the bully sometimes.

Then again? Sam just got into it with Dean outside the room. Maybe Sam can handle Dean on this one. Maybe he can even do it without making Chuck the bad guy.

The door opens and closes again and it's quiet for a second, Sam's steps silent.

Then he crawls on top of Chuck and makes a lumpy, messy pile of them, like a huge, awkward-limbed puppy.

"I did the thing you asked me to," he says.

"Yeah, good job," Chuck says into his pillow.

"I don't know if he'll give you any less shit, but-"

"It's fine. Thank you."

Sam flops down in the scant space between Chuck and the edge of the bed, at the wrong side. He yanks the sheets out from under himself and pushes them off of Chuck.

"I guess that's the end of my nap," Chuck says, still huddled in place.

"He's loud, I know you heard the whole thing."

"Yeah."

"I love you."

"You don't have to keep saying that every time the world puts its boot on my neck. I'm used to it."

"I love you and I don't want to allow the world to put its boot on your neck, so, yeah, I'm gonna keep saying it," he scoops Chuck up and pulls him on top of himself.

"Your shoes are still on."

"Yeah. We should go back over there in a little while. We've got some time, though."

Sam lets him doze on his shoulder a little bit. Hands holding him in place, thumbs rubbing idly over Chuck's t-shirt at his back, at his waist.

Sam's too warm, right now, in his layers and naturally running hot. So Chuck doesn't really drop off. Eventually, he slides back to the side and pushes at Sam's jackets until he sits up to take off all but one layer, leaving his shirt in place. He tries to draw Chuck back in, but Chuck sits up, kneels to either side of Sam's legs and starts working at his belt.

"Um. Is this."

"Not really. Well. Maybe," Chuck shrugs. "I donno. I'll think about it," he just wants the belt off. The buckle is pointy. He tosses it away.

He does think about it. He runs a hand up Sam's powerful thigh, over the denim. He thinks about Sam's big cock and how he's never been really good at sucking guys off. Rather clumsy about it, actually. But.

Sam makes him wanna try.

His hand slides up and he feels Sam twitch through the layers.

"Hey," Sam says, drawing his attention up. "You. I mean. Anything you want. No pressure."

"No pressure if I wanna try and fit your dick in my mouth?"

Sam's legs flex under him.

"Please tell me that's about to happen," he finally says, just staring.

Chuck opens the button and fly of his jeans and runs his hands up, again, both of them a rough scrub over Sam's thighs.

"I am... gonna fucking- I'm gonna come in- I'm gonna come so fast," Sam says, shaking his head, looking doomed.

"Maybe not. I'm not the best at this. You might ask me to stop."

"I promise I won't," Sam says, wide-eyed and disbelieving.

Chuck runs both hands up again and into the crotch of Sam's jeans, thumbs kneading lightly.

Sam gives up his restraint, groans, hardens under the layers.

YEAH. Okay. Chuck's mouth is actually watering which seems out of place, but. Why not?

He scoots up a little and digs into Sam's clothes to pull them aside, pull him out.

Sam sits up on his elbows to watch. Chuck decides not to get nervous about that. That's his target audience. Debut performance.

He strokes Sam and Sam's legs flex under him again. He moves to straddle only one and so Sam's left leg comes up to bracket him. Chuck tangles himself up there, looping his arm around, then guides Sam's cock into his mouth.

Sam drops back to lay down again. His hands reach up and grip for the headboard but it's nailed to the wall. His hands drop back down and fist in the sheets.

Chuck does a lot of pulling back to lick up and down because he gets nervous about the teeth thing. But then he decides to push it a little. He stretches his hand up Sam's belly and tries to keep him down, subtly, not that he could really control Sam's movements under any circumstances.

As he tries to move his mouth down, light sucking and tonguing followed by downward progress, Sam snatches up his hand and grips. His leg comes up and his boot lands on Chuck's ass, digging in a little, both strangely out of place and encouraging. Chuck realizes how sexy this is all of a sudden. Sam not even out of his clothes. He's in the shirt and jeans he'll be wearing when he's back with the rest of the fam, eating pizza and flipping pages. But Chuck's the one who will have seen him with his cock jutting out and his hands flying around, gasping.

Chuck will be the one who had all of Sam's strength pinned to the bed. He'll be the one who got to taste Sam's naked skin. He's the one who Sam trusts to come this close and sleep next to. He's the one who waits for Sam on the next floor up, greets him and tells him they're climbing to the top.

Sam chokes out cries that consist of half-words. Half his name and half curses.

Chuck has to pull back to breathe, concentrate, do better. He works at it again, with suction and doesn't get very far the second time before Sam is saying, "Alright, that's- I can't- You have to- that's- t-that's it, anymore, I- _Chuck_ ," he tries.

And he wants to make it really good at the end, he doesn't wanna choke (literally or figuratively) when Sam's almost there, so he pulls back and leaves him wet and strokes him, kisses the shaft between long pulls and Sam's chest expands, his hands fly to the sheets again, he comes over Chuck's fist, pumping his hips, at last, a solid, " _Yes_ ," on every thrust until he's whispering it and his cock won't give up anymore.

Chuck's hand is covered, spit and come, and Sam doesn't seem to care when he sits up, uses his leg to urge Chuck up, draws him into his arms.

After he kisses Chuck for a while, he digs in his pocket for something. Comes up with one of the kerchiefs they normally use for spells.

He wipes Chuck's hand off and rolls Chuck under himself to kiss him again.

"I'm not copping out. I'll do you later. I just don't want him to stomp back over here and try to kick the door in when I've got you naked."

"No, I know. I'm good." He's not rock solid, pretty much just buzzy and pleased with himself. He can wait.

But Sam does tuck himself back into his clothes and dig a place in the sheets for Chuck to settle him down and kiss him for a while, praise him. "Love your mouth. It's amazing. Always want your mouth on me. Want it to kiss. Fuck. Want you." His big hands a blessing as they cup and hold Chuck everywhere. It's just really sweet and Sam is so dedicated to what he's doing there.

Sam ends it by kissing his head. "You need more caffeine, soon."

"Yeah."

"It was really fucking good. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Find where I threw everything?"

"I folded your stuff. It's on the dresser."

"Actual, literal housewife. With stunning hair. And a great rack."

"No one's ever said I have a great rack before!" Sam seems genuinely excited about this.

"It's that heavy-breathing thing you do. Yeah, I like your chest."

Sam folds around him. "Aww. Thanks, sweetheart."

«»

"Wow, you're not tall," Charlie says when Sam urges Chuck into the room.

He shrugs like, _the fuck am I supposed to do about that?_

"I guess I just expected to be dwarfed in every room from now on. Hi," she waves. "I've been told you're not a hugger."

Chuck nods. "That's correct."

"Okay, cool," and like some sort of goddess in her own right, she produces a bottled iced coffee out of nowhere. Hands it over. "Am I your fave already?"

"Pretty damn close," he admits.

Charlie grins like, _yeah, I know_ , and flashes Sam a thumbs-up before returning to a pile of drives and tablets spread out on Cas's bed. In passing she taps the screen that Castiel is holding which makes him go, "Oh. I get it now," and continue scrolling.

Sam puts his hand to Chuck's back and directs him over and sets him up at the kitchenette table with the books they brought. Moves the other chair over to his side.

"I've got some stuff," Charlie says. "We're waiting for Dean to get off the phone. He's wandering the parking lot somewhere. The real Feds are giving him some issues, I guess," she says with the weary air of someone who already hates it when the locals try to do her job.

Sam sits next to Chuck, warm up against his side. He digs through his bag for a minute and comes up with stevia packets for Chuck to dump into his drink.

Chuck doesn't like that stevia shit but the fact that Sam is now carrying around sweeteners for his coffee is too fucking precious. Sam was totally lying about not coddling him. Chuck's gonna end up spoiled rotten. When Chuck caps it back up, Sam even shakes it for him until the sweetener dissolves.

"I can't deal with you," he says.

"You kinda have to. You're pretty well stuck with me," he points, trades the coffee for the book Chuck has in front of him.

"So we think she's got an attack doggy?" Charlie frowns. "Poor thing. Hey, they finally uploaded the crime scene photos someplace I could dig them up. Skimmed it from an interoffice email." She turns the screen to present them with an image. "The coins."

Cas sets aside the tablet he was holding to take up that one and look closely at the images. "Demeter," Cas confirms. He stretches over Dean's bed to hand it to Chuck.

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "The crown. That's her mom alright."

"So we really are dealing with Persephone. Wow. What's her deal, then? Does she just wanna repopulate Hades or something?" Charlie asks.

"That would be hard to do," Cas says. "Crowley harvested all the souls from there when he first took power. Few shades remain. Mainly ones that Persephone herself took all memory and direction from. If that's her goal, she's going about it in an arduous way."

"Maybe she needs the time between sprees to ferry souls down, herself," Chuck theorizes. "Only two of them got coins. Maybe she's carrying out a personal grudge and she wants to... I donno. Take them to a specific torture?"

Dean wanders back into the motel room.

"If she's taking it personal, that would explain the few connections we got on the vic pool. But not the exceptions," Sam objects. "We have to start there."

Dean waves his phone. "Something's going down. All my contacts in town just stopped picking up their phones. I think somebody found another string, but they don't want the media hearing about it yet."

"Are we reporters this time?" Charlie asks.

"Have to be when the Feds get here first," Dean shrugs. He doesn't like it either.

"Bummer. Anyway. Presentation time!" She bounds up and comes to get her tablet back from Sam and Chuck. "I found more complete information on the people killed in the first string."

The reason they couldn't find anything on the first victim was because he fabricated his identity. He was on an expired green card but she eventually dug up most his info. Cas translates his papers aloud for them but it doesn't add real connections to anyone.

Sam takes his laptop out and starts searching the name and unearths a scan of a news article.

"Human trafficking," Sam reads.

And that backs up Chuck's last theory. "Okay. So, um. I don't think Persephone killed the two women who got coins."

"Why not?" Dean bites.

"Maybe it was sympathy. Remorse. Their throats were cut. They weren't mauled. For all we know, the two other people who were killed in that string cut the women's throats. And so they're allowed to get coins for the boatman. But the others aren't. They were victims before she even got there."

"You're saying..." Charlie tries to keep up. "You're saying she's killing murderers?"

"Human traffickers," Chuck points at Sam's screen. "I saw this episode of Bourdain where he goes to Portland and tours the tunnels under the bars where people would get shanghaied. The people in the first and third strings who were all Portland natives? They lived in that area. If you could dig up credit records on them, I wonder if any of them-"

"Own property," Charlie says, already typing.  
And then, "Yeah."

"So they moved away so the operation in Portland wouldn't be connected to them?" Cas theorizes.

"Are you saying they're just ripping off history, modern-day shanghaiing people?" Dean snorts. "That's unoriginal."

"And she found them and she's taking out their operation. If we can't find records on the two women, we can find out if the business they own is a front-"

"A nanny placement service," Charlie confirms.

"This is like. Gross," Dean grimaces. "I almost wanna let her keep going."

"She can't decide who lives and dies on her own," Sam's sense of justice pipes up.

"And she doesn't belong on the surface of this world," Cas adds.

"Yeah, I know," Dean puts up his hands. "I'm just saying. We stop her now, we have to hunt down the rest of the ring ourselves."

No one denies that that's true.

"I'll start plugging more of the pieces together. The names on the financial information and stuff were aliases. They didn't hide their trail too much, though. We find who she's after next, we meet her there," Charlie shrugs.

"And then what?" Dean asks. "We don't know how to gank her yet."

"If Crowley knows how to get to her- whatever it is, kingdom? Then we could call him. I guess. Tie her up and deliver her?" Sam says.

"We hand over a powerful goddess to Crowley," Cas says, dubious.

"So we need to track down the next vics-- the next bad guys, I mean. And then we figure out how to stop her."

"And her dog," Chuck feels like he's the only guy in the room concerned about that. "We also have to stop her giant, mythical, three-headed, killer dog."

No one says anything for a moment.

Then Dean shudders head to foot. "I am not looking to tango with a multi-mouthed hellbeast."

Him least of all of them, for sure.

"Well, we've got our research lined up, then," Sam says.

Chuck starts opening books. Charlie clacks away and Dean and Cas have a moment of side-eyeing one another.

"Yay," Dean deadpans. "A long night of research while more bodies stack up."

Charlie draws Cas over to show him something, and Dean grabs a book on his way to the fridge. He pulls out a six-pack and sets it on the table.

Sam's reading something so he isn't really paying attention.

The clink of the bottles sounds like sunshine and vacation to Chuck. It's hard to ignore them.

Dean cracks one open and leans back against the counter, drains half before he opens the book he grabbed. 

Chuck is still staring.

Dean looks slightly reluctant as he drags another one of the beers out of the cardboard carton. He uncaps it and hands it toward Chuck. "You earned it."

"No," Sam says suddenly clenching the laptop screen.

"Oh, look, he's not sticking up for you and I am," Dean loves it when he's the good guy, but he's missing the point.

Sam's hand darts out and grabs for the bottle. Dean shrugs it out of his reach.

Sam glares at his brother. " _No_ ," he repeats.

"You dump the booze over here and now he can't have _a_ beer? What, did you knock him up already?" Dean laughs, baffled.

Huh.  
Sam didn't tell him.

"I'm good," Chuck tries to say, waving Dean off.

Sam keeps glaring and Dean looks confused until, all of a sudden, he doesn't.

"OH. Oh, wow. Sober. Sober and hunting. Wow. That's gonna work out real well for you," Dean laughs at him.

Chuck can feel Charlie and Cas staring and things go quiet.

That's a really weird position for Dean to take in this particular room full of people.

Dean almost seems conscious of that after a moment.

He puts both open bottles on the counter next to him and takes the rest back to the fridge.

"I'll be out in the real world, waiting for this stupid phone to ring, if anyone needs me," he points toward the door and then takes both beers and his book outside.

Everyone turns back to their work.

Sam's hand curves around Chuck's knee, though he doesn't say anything.

Chuck waves him off. "It's fine. Whatever," he mumbles. Like he can't handle someone else drinking a beer in the same room with him.

Well, okay. So he stared and made a face of longing until Dean handed him one.

It wasn't like he took it, though.

«»

Sam comes back in from the parking lot to announce that there's good news and there's bad news.

"A similar attack just outside of town. The detective finally called Dean back. After contacting the national press first because he didn't like Dean's attitude."

Shit. Big press is bad. It makes everything harder.

Sam crosses his arms, shakes his head, falls to a lean against the counter. "So if big media bites, we may have to distract them some way to get this done quiet."

"Bomb threat?" Charlie asks. "I can fabricate a few of those."

"Might be a good idea. I donno. Something that doesn't get other people hurt. Depends how hard and fast the press starts taking an interest."

"What's the good news?" Cas asks.

"That it's time for fucking dinner," Sam nods. "Dean and I are starving."

"Ugh, me too," Charlie agrees. "What are we getting?"

"Dean said you guys passed a sandwich place on the way in, open late?" Sam asks Cas.

"I recall the location."

"You and me are gonna pick up sustenance."

Cas nods and heads out to the parking lot.

Charlie finds the motel stationary and starts jotting her order down.

Sam crouches next to Chuck, puts his hand to his knee again, thumb sweeping his jeans.

"So, okay. Sandwich. You have any idea what you want?"

"Uh. Tomatoes. Something with tomatoes. Chicken."

Sam kisses his ear. "I can do that. You got enough there?" he taps the coffee bottle.

"Maybe."

"Maybe," Sam smiles and kisses the side of his head but hangs close this time. "I'm gonna go get the food with Cas, so," he whispers, shrugs, doesn't finish.

Chuck smiles, because that's a weird point to make, like some joke he's supposed to understand, and that gets his mouth kissed.

"Love you," Sam declares, quiet, and straightens Chuck's glasses on his face. "Be right back."

"'Kay."

Sam takes the paper Charlie offers up and heads outside, patting for his wallet.

Chuck returns to the book in front of him when the door's closed, but Charlie wolf whistles.

He frowns at her.

"That boy is GONE," she marvels.

Chuck rolls his eyes.

"I'm not kidding," she insists. "I didn't even think Sam could get that happy."

Chuck considers this.

"You know the fangirls call him the-" she stops herself. "Nevermind."

"Yeah, I know," Chuck says anyway. Whatever it is, he knows. "I don't have to buy into my own bullshit, though."

They don't hear the Impala roll out and Dean comes back in alone, looking unperturbed. Sam must have taken the Porsche.

Dean huddles up with Charlie to discuss what he's read and they both leave Chuck alone to think and read and absorb.

This is gonna be closer to Dean's hell-the-fuck-no zone than they were maybe prepared for. All he's reading is pointing him towards the idea that Cerberus isn't just a beast of Hades, but the actual big-momma hellhound. The first one.

He recalls what Sam told him about killing Crowley's dog for the first tablet trial. He opened it up with Ruby's-- with the demon-killing knife. Hopefully that means the knife and angel blades will work against it.

But how big is it? And is it really just three heads or is it more like other versions?

The child poisoned by a flower near the second crime scene. That could mean that Cerberus' teeth really do drip venom that produces beautiful, deadly flowers, just like its master suddenly brings forth crops from the ground.

This whole hunt seems more and more impossible as Chuck keeps reading. Persephone was dragged down to hell, yes. But then she slipped into the role of queen like it was nothing. Like she was made for it. They're not going up against some maiden nymph with a guard dog. They're going up against a vicious goddess with the first hellhound at her side.

"Okay, I'm starving. I swear if Sam is letting Cas do the ordering we're gonna die in this room."

Chuck digs his phone from his pocket. Nothing. But, yeah, it's been nearly an hour they've been gone.

Dean gripes for ten more minutes before he tries to call Sam. "Fucking," he tosses up his hands. "This room is a dead zone," and he goes back out to the parking lot.

Chuck checks his own phone again. He doesn't have a signal in here either.

He props the door open as he follows Dean.

He gets his signal back when he clears the building, but no-- oh.

Missed call from Sam. No message.

Dean stares at him from over the car. The way he looks drops a brick of foreboding into his empty stomach.

"I'm trying Cas, too, hold on," he says, hanging up on Sam's voicemail.

Cas doesn't answer Dean, so Chuck starts dialing Sam.

"You've reached Sam, text me or leave your number," his new message says.

No. Because no.

He types, **Please respond with your status before we start freaking the fuck out.**

Nothing. Dean makes his own texts and they stand there. Waiting.

Charlie wanders out and Dean turns away to dial again. When she sees Chuck's face, her eyes go wide.

She pulls out her own phone and dials Cas. She leaves a message. "This is your favorite redhead, you guys better show up lickety split because we're starting to assume the worst. Call us back. Bye."

Dean kicks the Impala's front tire. "Too much to hope you invested in LoJack on the Porsche?"

Chuck shakes his head, mute. Sam made sure the car was totally clean of anything traceable.

He must look as freaked as he's starting to feel because Charlie almost reaches out to him before she remembers not to.

Persephone just started dropping bodies again and now.

She might have- but- Cas is still seriously angelic. Could she really stand up aga--

Of course she could. Some of those pagan gods are older than the youngest angels. Cas isn't among the very youngest but he's not among the elder.

Chuck drifts toward the car. He places his hand on the curve of metal, the side of the trunk.

Dean's looking at him when he instructs Charlie to lock up the room.

"Get in, Chuck," he says, eerie and edged.

Chuck gets right in the back. Dean gets in next. Charlie comes back out with a bag and slides into shotgun.

They blaze out of the parking lot.

«»

The Porsche sits empty and unlocked beside the sandwich shop.

Dean goes in to ask the staff if they've seen anything but he doesn't look happy with the way they're answering.

Chuck sits in the driver's seat. The keys aren't anywhere.

He pats under the seat. He looks around the passenger side.

Charlie crouches and emerges with his keyring from where it lay beside the back tire.

Oh.  
Okay.

This is fine. This is okay.

Chuck takes the keys as they're carefully handed over to him.

No, this is alright. This is okay. Because Sam and Cas may be completely missing with a rogue goddess on the loose laying waste to small groups of people at a time, but.

Yeah. This is fine. He can handle this.

This is what he signed up for. This is why he's here.

He is staring calmly at a column of high explosives in his head and, this is fine, you know? Like, there's still a full line of numbers until this puppy lights up and vaporizes his entire being. And once it vaporizes him, he won't be conscious anymore to see how bad he fucked up.

No. Really. This is _fine_.

When Dean finally slams back out of the sandwich shop, he is too livid for words.

It's absolutely plain what has happened here.

"Charlie, you wanna ride back with me?" Chuck asks.

Charlie looks between Dean who is fed the fuck up with the world taking Sam away and Chuck who pretty much _expects_ the world to take Sam away and she says, "Yeah," voice thin. "Yeah. We should head back."

She escapes to the passenger seat and shuts herself in.

Chuck approaches Dean. He hasn't reached too-calm mode yet. His fists are still clenched so tight it looks painful.

"Dean."

Dean doesn't respond but his eyes do. Okay.

"I have a plan. It involves you maiming something beyond repair. You down?"

Dean flexes his jaw before he's able to look side to side. Inhale. Speak. "It's what I live for."

"Get in the car," Chuck lists off. "Go buy half the dollar menu for us. It'll take five minutes. Then meet us at the motel. By the time you get there, I'll have a list of things I need you to collect."

Dean sniffs. "For what."

"I don't think dogs really need three heads, do you?"

"I'm gonna fucking send her back down there in pieces," he promises.

"I get that. Yeah. That'll probably happen. Let's get Sam and Cas back first."

"Charlie hates pickles. What do you hate?"

"Um. Wow. There's a list. But just. Get a fucking hamburger for each of us so we can operate for the next few hours. Get one without pickles. Meet us at the motel."

Dean's jaw twitches. But he nods and gets in the Impala. He seethes for a long minute before he starts it up. And heads south towards fast food. This gives Chuck time to get back in the Porsche and start gunning it north.

"He's not gonna be okay," Charlie understates.

"We have to do something only one person in history has ever fucking done and we have about twenty minutes to figure out how or he starts his own slice-and-dice campaign."

"What are we gonna do?"

"The Twelfth Labor of Hercules."

«»

After Chuck explains the idea in the car, Charlie is able to help him brainstorm. "Alright. So everything we know about hellhounds, while we make the assumption that this one is a little stronger and has three heads. And, oh yeah, possibly poison fangs!" she hollers.

"Please don't shout," Chuck cringes, pulling into the motel parking lot.

"You're a little too chill for-"

"Your brothers might be missing," he cuts her off, "but Sam is one of them and I don't know if I can fully fucking explain to you how he's just about the only thing I have. Period. So forgive me for needing to compartmentalize in order to get them back. I don't have time to freak out right now," he gets out of the Porsche and waits patiently by the door for her to unlock Dean and Cas's room.

"Sorry," she says before she opens the room.

Chuck shrugs it off. "We deal in different ways."

Charlie pulls up screens on two tablets and grabs up the stationary again.

"So the demon blade," she writes out. "Do angel blades work on these things?"

"I'm assuming so, yeah."

"How did Hercules do it?" she asks, "I don't remember this from humanities class. I kinda dropped it to take French with a hot girl."

"He was just challenged by Pluto-Hades-whoever to overpower Cerberus without weapons."

"And he just wrestled it down because he was an epic hero?"

"Pretty much. Dean's capable of a lot when he's angry, but I don't think that's how it'll go for him."

"Because of the poison fangs?"

"Possibly. It's also supposedly got a HUNDRED heads and a dragon tail and the body of a lion and a billion other interpretations so until we actually see it, we're flying slightly blind," his voice goes high and nervous and he has to put that shit in its place right now. "The good-slash-bad news is that it freaks out and drools poison only when exposed to the sun. We can assume Persephone can only hunt with it at night, then. So we could expose it to a high-powered light-"

"As long as we stay away from the poison."

"Right."

"High-powered light," she says as she writes. "Maybe. Um. If I were Hermione right now I could get dragon-skin gloves from my magic bag of tricks to keep the venom off."

Chuck sits on Dean's bed and closes his eyes and looks for something in anybody's memories that might help him. He starts with Bobby first. Bobby wasn't really a 'taking precautions handling dangerous objects' kinda guy, though.

He comes across a story Sam told him.

"Goggles," Chuck says, "or glasses. And holy oil. Write it down. Cerberus might be invisible if we're going with it as a hellhound. We need to see through the veil a little. And. Um."

He takes a breath. Focuses.

"Do you have the books downloaded?" he asks, eyes still clamped shut.

"PDF or doc?"

"Doesn't matter. I can't always remember what I wrote. Search for gloves. Protection. Poison."

"On it."

She keeps her movements quiet while Chuck breathes again and looks for Sam.

It's really comfortable there.  
It's really heartbreaking there.

He has to look through Sam's words.

Something protective. Sam.

The car. All he keeps coming back to is the metal of the car. Maybe they can hit Cerberus with it.

Dragon skin? If only. What can't be harmed by traditional weapons?

Demons. Angels.

"Iron," Chuck tosses out. "Iron chains. Maybe."

"He'll be here in like two minutes," Charlie eventually warns, soft.

He can't find anything. He isn't fucking calling up Crowley for shit. Fuck that.

What if they distract it? Like with a chew toy.

He must be mumbling. "I'm reading now," Charlie says, "Cerberus only goes for living flesh."

And likely only what Persephone permits since it's on the surface killing only bad guys.

Fine. Dragon gloves. Bobby knew a woman. Visyak. She had swords in her home. No dragon flesh samples. Armor from old knights. Where is she? San Francisco? Too far.

"Local museums," Chuck says. And he hears the Impala outside. "Ones with historical suits of armor."

"Searching," Charlie reports. "Not coming up with anything in your books. Just protective spells. There's a museum in town. No medieval section."

Dean's key in the lock.  
Dammnit.

Fine. Protective spells. Antidotes.

The smell of greasy food as Dean enters. "Talk to me," he demands. Drops the sack of food next to Chuck.

Chuck sighs. Sam would tell him he thinks better with sugar and protein in his system. He opens his eyes and digs a cheeseburger out of the bag.

"List so far," Charlie passes it to Dean.

Dean snatches it up and reads. "I've already got most this stuff. I can get the light. Gloves from a suit of armor?"

"Unless you know of something better? Something that protects from poison." She gets up to dig food out of the bag, too.

"No. And you know what? Fuck that. I'm just gonna hunt the bitch down and start firing everything I've got."

"Overruled," Chuck manages with food in his mouth. "We're doing this the smart way."

"You gonna stop me, Chuck?" he cocks an eyebrow.

"Yep."

"How?"

"We'll slash your tires first," Charlie says and that is... totally not the jugular she should have raised a knife to. Chuck would never have the guts.

The scowl drops from Dean's face, replaced by betrayal.

Charlie holds the food bag back up to Dean. Then shoves it at him.

He still looks betrayed, mindlessly takes it. And in just that one moment, Charlie has pickpocketed the keys from him. She only lets Chuck see, pats his back under the pretense of solidarity to drop the keyring down the back of Chuck's hoodie.

Well played.

"You wouldn't," Dean finally sputters.

"Poison antidotes. Tell me how. I'll start brewing some while you go out and get ingredients for more. And try to find the other stuff. We work together," she says. And it's final. She drops back to Cas's bed and continues her searches while simultaneously eating and reading.

Dean pouts and goes to sit at the table. He eats for a while, then, weirdly, he passes Chuck's bottled coffee back over to him.

"Thanks."

Dean tries to pretend he isn't staring for a minute.

Just a minute.

"You're-" he starts and stops. "Sam's gonna be fine," he tries instead.

He has to ignore Dean if he wants to get the rest of this burger into his stomach.

«»

Dean gets his keys back but they can't trust him to return on his own. So they all three pile into the car to do some breaking and entering. Chuck mainly serves as lookout. Which is fine. Just because he knows how to pick locks doesn't mean he wants to.

They gather all they can while it's still dark. Then return to the motel to plot, potion, and pursue.

When Dean leaves the room to check his phone, Chuck is sure, somehow, that he's also sending prayers to Cas.

Chuck can't long-distance think at Sam. That's probably good considering his brain has partitioned off a place to quietly lose every semblance of hope and sense.

He helps Dean out with the preventatives against the poison and Dean decides to make holy oil Molotovs out of all the empty bottles in the room. Charlie falls asleep on Cas's bed still trying to track the current locations of more of the kidnapping ring, but those remaining have either wisely disappeared or are just corpses waiting to be discovered.

It's after sunrise. Short winter day. They've still got hours before it gets dark again. Before it would be Cerberus' hunting time. They're not in action mode anymore. They're worn out. Even Dean, though he'll only load up on more caffeine and keep worrying.

Dean tucks Charlie in, moves her computers away and stacks books to the side. 

They finish what they're doing without talking. Chuck turns to pick up Sam's laptop and Dean closes it with a long reach over.

"Sam would kick my ass if I didn't tell you to go get some sleep."

Chuck steps back and considers him for a long moment.

"He was a mess. By the way. About not getting to see you after Virginia. I don't know if- I mean. He looked like he was keeping it together." Dean shakes his head, dusts ash off his fingers. "He wasn't. I knew what was happening. I didn't want to give a shit about it, but I knew. It turns out Cas cooked up that plan. And. Good, you know? At least." Dean hesitates. "At least you know him. At least you understand him and me."

Chuck nods.

"And he was just. I mean. He worked. And was still the same guy. But. He was fucked up. He worried a lot, after the angel kidnapping thing. And I maybe shoulda taken that more seriously. Because since you guys showed up here? I mean. Shit. He hasn't been straight-up _happy_ in a long time, I guess. I guess," he says in a voice gone quiet, "I just didn't notice. And he is now. Finally happy."

"That's not all your fault," Chuck says, because he knows what Dean's thinking.

But Dean waves him off.

"So. Uh. Just. You know it's okay to freak out. I mean, you're wound so tight right now I'm worried I won't get first crack at that dog," he jokes, but doesn't smile.

Chuck can't think of anything to say to that. Except that Dean has just echoed his brother and he doesn't even know it.

"Go back and sleep. We'll head out in a few hours. Seriously, if he saw you right now, he'd be pissed."

Chuck considers his empty coffee, now stuffed with cloth and oil. He nods and digs the room key out of his pocket.

Dean smacks his arm as he passes. Then pretends like he's gonna sleep, too.

He's not.

Everything made it look like Sam was holding it together better than Chuck. Chuck's in pieces still, all the time. He's always been a worrier and a little frantic but losing the booze also made him a sober alcoholic who is always kicking his way out of the deep end.

Sam was not holding it together. Dean had been turning a blind eye. Cas had been using his tactical skills to con Dean into letting Sam go to Kansas City.

He probably should have figured. Sam didn't have direct access to a person who had started to rely on him and it was tearing at his seams because there was nothing about the job he had to keep from Chuck but he somehow still couldn't be part of his life. That makes sense in a totally Sam Winchester way.

Figures he would come to feel more solid than ever about their relationship when Sam isn't even around.

Back in room 23, by himself, there are a dozen little marks of Sam's presence and he doesn't know whether to find peace in it or fucking scream his head off.

He sits on the bed where Sam promised to touch him and he takes out his silent, silent phone.

He dials home. Sam. He dials Sam.

"You've reached Sam, text me or leave your number."

"Yeah, hi. I'm gonna hang up and redial a few times so, when we get you back, just ignore the missed calls."

He redials and listens. Redials and listens.

It was one thing when he expected not to hear from Sam but he thought that was over.

He opens old texts.

He gets undressed and gets into bed and reads more. Long conversations and strings of nonsense. Talking about tv shows and hunts. He can't scroll all the way to the start. He really is tired. He pulls the covers up. He's cold.

He was never very attached to his prophecies. He didn't find comfort in them, not ever. But he would appreciate knowing that this is one in only a handful of times he will ever have to sleep without Sam again.

«»

His phone wakes him up. And he wakes up knowing damn well that Sam's not on the other end. It's only four hours later.

"Dean?"

"Heading your way."

"Guess I need pants," he hangs up.

Dean knocks. 

"Please have pants on," he's turned away when Chuck answers the door, tugging his jacket on.

"I am pantsed. What have ya got?" he wanders back to find his shoes.

"Sam's phone pinged back on. Charlie's computer caught it. And he managed to send me a text. 'Lake.'" He pulls it up and shows Chuck.

**lake**

That's seriously all it says.

"You better do something about his communication skills," Dean says, unamused. "'Cause that ain't how I raised him."

"And the phone, did it ping by a lake?"

"Nowhere near, but Charlie's being brilliant as we speak," he starts kicking around the room until he finds one of Sam's bags. He digs some ammo out and looks disappointed at not finding something else. "Angel blade?" he squints up at Chuck from a crouch.

Chuck shrugs. He hasn't seen Sam carry one.

"I told him to take one. Whatever," he stands up, "C'mon."

Charlie is buzzing around Dean's room.

"Voltage. South of Malheur Lake."

"We know this how?" Dean asks.

"One of the guys who's dead is loosely connected with a guy with an alias in a town called Voltage? Who owns too much property to ignore."

"Good enough for me."

Chuck dials Sam again and it goes straight to voicemail. He listens to Sam's voice as Dean hands him one of the motel courtesy cups with black coffee.

He accepts it and hangs up.

"We need your brain fueled," Dean says before he can thank him.

Charlie starts packing the last of her stuff and leads the way out to the car.

Chuck takes the back seat. He keeps trying Sam's phone, hoping it will turn on. (And listening listening listening.)

«»

It's a perfect, chill, early evening when they roll by the property in the car. It's hard to hear if anything could be growling, ripping, shredding over the Impala's engine, though. So they park down the road and get out.

Dean pours some of the holy oil out in a dip in the gravel. Lights it.

They have three new pairs of glasses. He sweeps them over the flames and hands a pair to Charlie, then Chuck.

"It looks like black-and-white 3-D in these things if that makes any sense," he warns them in a low tone.

"Geeze," Charlie spins, taking in the world in her new vision.

Chuck finds it's easier to look through just his left eye with the other squinted almost closed.

Dean puts his own pair on and gathers various ammunition from the trunk. Just the light stuff. A blade, a Molotov for each jacket pocket. Needs the rest of his strength to carry a chain.

And Charlie has her swords.

Dean hesitates, fingertips on the worn wood of a sawed-off.

Chuck blows out a breath and comes forward. Picks six salt rounds out of a busted box rolling around loose. He picks the gun up. Checks it. Loads it. Pumps it.

He knows what he's doing with it.

He can.  
And he will.

Dean finds more rounds and hands them over. Chuck stuffs them in his jacket pockets.

"Iron in the black-"

"Salt in the red. Yeah."

Dean nods and shuts the trunk.

The property is sprawling. There's a barn and long, level house creeping across the property. Various sheds. Equipment parked all over.

"Charlie. Head around north. Your phones charged?" he asks them.

Chuck and Charlie nod.

"North," he points at her. "Wait two minutes. Then sweep in."

She heads for the side of the property, around a fence, and moves fast, low to the ground. Silent. Her red hair disappears in the low glare of the setting sun.

"You're coming in from the southwest. You ready?"

Chuck shrugs and turns and gets to the corner of the property. Dean's walk is further, to the southeast. When he starts moving in, Chuck raises the shotgun and does the same.

He's watching and aiming and searching all with one eye.

He's listening more, though. For howls that do not come.

He can hear them. He can hear them come for men and women as they cower. He can hear them come for Bela Talbot. He can hear them come for Dean.

Nothing like that yet, as he fails to crouch low enough, pushing into the corner of the property.

He pauses, choked, next to a stack of tractor tires, when he smells blood.

He drops to the ground low and sweeps the shotgun around.

His cell phone buzzes.

He can't deal with all this and these fucking glasses. He pushes them to the top of his head and picks the phone out of his pocket.

"What," he whispers.

"East end. We got bodies over here."

"Probably here, too-"

He stares.

"Chuck?" Dean whispers on the phone.

"Get over here," Chuck hangs up.

He's seeing what he thinks he's seeing.

He's fucking positive.

And either it's not invisible or it's not the right creature.

Chuck has always known what hellhounds look like. He's seen them through demon eyes. Their bodies varying from bulky to sleek. But all of them shaped more like wolves than anything. He must have had this image built up in his head. Of Fluffy. Hagrid's fucking dog from the first _Potter_ movie.

This is nothing like Fluffy.

This is a hellhound that just happens to be visible. Happens to be about two feet taller. Happens to have a gnarled whip of a tail.

Happens to have three fucking heads.

It trots to nose at lumps on the ground, all three heads interested. Until one of them comes up and sniffs at the air.

The wind is coming from the north. That could be Charlie.

He gets lower to the ground and moves forward as quietly as he can. Until the head that's risen seems to be searching for him. Followed by the middle head.

He can't do it. He hides.

What if salt and iron and holy water don't work? This thing is different. He sees the resemblance but the point is that he doesn't have the glasses on and he _sees_ the resemblance.

He hears a click. Looks around the machine he's ducked under the seat of.

Dean is creeping toward him. Chuck holds up a hand for him to halt. He takes the glasses off his head, sets them on the mud and grass. Pointedly. Dean removes his own and puts them in his pocket.

Chuck holds up three fingers and motions toward the side porch.

Dean ducks into the grass, belly to the ground.

He sees now.

Chuck waves for his attention again. Points to the creature, points to his own nose.

Points in Charlie's direction.

He sees Dean's mouth form the word, _Shit_.

Chuck makes an explosive gesture with one hand and mouths, _Holy oil_. Then motions that he's gonna circle back out and come at it from the west while Dean pelts it from the south.

Right now he doesn't know if they're aiming to kill, capture, or maim. But he'll settle for having any kind of advantage besides three-on-three.

Dean hesitates, but knows his options are limited. Charlie will come in from the north when she sees the action. And the only way for Cerberus to escape is back through the house.

He nods.

Chuck only tries for the minimum of caution. He's got about ten seconds to get into place. They need to hit it while it's still blocked to the east.

The head that seems to be most aware notices.

Chuck stands when he can't hide anymore but the dog doesn't growl until he lifts the gun.

One of the bottles full of holy oil smashes against Cerberus's side as it turns, a sound like a glass shattering on a tile floor, the dog's pointed scales reinforced and sturdy.

It shifts to the side and yelps and the oil spatters across its side and back, igniting in the same moment Chuck fires a round at it.

One head is yipping, one barking, one growling.

The gun kicks back and he has to admit he was not prepared for how much. He was probably feeling the memory of it through Dean's sturdy body.

As expected, Charlie arrives, winds up and throws her own bottle at its other side without bothering to light it. The oil explodes from its vessel and ignites with the rest.

Howling and howling now. Crashing in circles, tripping over dead bodies, Cerberus sees Dean approaching with a length of chain and the demon blade. Charlie with both her swords out. Chuck fires another wild shot and Cerberus rounds into a wall, crashes through the open door and into the house. Dean and Charlie pursue. Chuck stands still.

Shakes himself. Reloads.

Then heads running for the north of the house. That side would have another porch facing the lake. He gets there and has to round a monstrosity of a deck and barrel through a patio set to get to the other door. Dean is in the living room, hauling the dog around by the chain but only one of its heads is caught up and the pull between them is uneven, Charlie staying in close, swiping at the dog with her blades when it comes too near Dean.

Dean's hauling it around as much as it is him.

They're all over the couches, three different tables are smashed and in pieces across the room. They need to rope at least one other head or seriously harm it somehow.

The way Charlie's blades spark against it, they're unlikely to be able to just chop one off. At least not without the right kinda knife.

There's a fireplace with a full set of pokers and tongs. As the struggle continues, Chuck slides along the wall until he can grab an iron poker from the hearth.

How the fuck is he gonna do this?

The legs of the beast are thinner and fleshy. Exposed.

He aims.

It's hard with it yanking left and right and baaack shit--

He falls into the fireplace avoiding it.

Scrambles up. Drops the shotgun.

Nails its foot into the carpet with a two-hand, downward thrust.

A mighty, earsplitting fucking howl.

Chuck has iron rounds loaded. He fires into Cerberus's other back leg, staggering it.

He can see Dean pull out the demon blade from his belt again and stab the middle head in the side of the mouth. Now it's barking, spitting black blood, snapping. Dean nails it another time in the neck but that's only enough to piss it off. It jerks and Dean loses his one-handed hold.

Charlie drops her blades to grab the chain and yell for Dean to go get more.

Dean sees the kitchen light hanging from a chain and kicks the table aside, reaching for it.

Chuck comes edging around and grabs the chain with Charlie. With the both of them they have an easier time getting it to come where they want it. The two other heads are snapping at Chuck's elbow, though, and he has a minor fucking _heart attack_ when the sleeve of his jacket gets snipped in the middle one's jaws.

There's a crash and Dean comes back with what is absolutely a flimsy, decorative chain from the lamp, but he jumps at Cerberus from the side getting it around the left neck and yanking it suddenly tight so they're prying the dog in two separate directions.

Chuck holds out his hand. "Go. Go get more chain," he yells over the dog.

Dean tightens it one more time and hands the end over. Books it for the front door.

The other chain doesn't do much except allow Cerberus to jerk one side of Chuck's body around.

Charlie is kicking out with a foot, trying to bring one of her blades closer.

He understands but kinda wishes she would wait two fucking minutes.

The flames have long since gone out and they may have frightened the dog or cooked it under its scales, but there's no visible damage he can see clearly with it flailing around.

He yanks on the weak chain to try to gain some control, but then the dog rears up, flexes and howls. Tugs unexpectedly.

It snaps.

Chuck almost falls back.

Then he does fall back, tripping over another dead body.

The weirdest, garbled protests come out of his mouth because he CANNOT believe this shit.

Just as Charlie starts losing grip, Dean's back, wreathed in heavy chains. He grabs Chuck's arm and hauls him up, then steadies Charlie's hold.

He gets Chuck to help him with chaining the other two heads, then he tosses the end into the fireplace.

It's two-sided, opening to the room at the opposite side. Charlie bounds around and brings the end back into the main room.

Dean locks the chain in a tight loop and they use the brick, the very structure of the house, to keep Cerberus chained in place.

The dog is still taking wild bites at them, only restrained by the tangles of the iron chains.

The three of them back up and release their holds by degrees.

When they stand there and just watch Cerberus snap and bark at them from a safe distance, Dean takes a deep breath and steps around the dog for the gun Chuck dropped.

He pumps four more iron rounds into its legs, hobbling it and reducing it to whines.

Dean has no mercy for hellhounds so he also removes the firepoker and jams it back in at a better angle, splintering the wooden floor beneath the rug, a second hole filling with the dog's black blood. Chuck walks away to take a breath but Dean calls him back. Hands the gun over. "Rest of the house. Sweep and clear," he nods at Charlie, too.

She and Chuck eye each other. But she grabs her blades and they head in different directions across the house.

Chuck goes back the way of the destruction. He's never done this room-by-room clearing thing on his own before. He has to channel a Sam memory and--

Shakes his head. Shies away from it. He pulls up a few of Dean's memories and breathes through them. Focuses. Does the Job.

He steps over sticks of broken furniture and heaps of glass that used to be nice tables and display cabinets. He clears the rooms on his side silently before coming across Dean sweeping the front rooms.

"Dean! Basement!" Charlie calls. And that doesn't sound like distress, but Chuck follows with his gun ready anyway, angled away from Dean.

When they find her, Charlie is crouched by two bare, filthy mattresses and a pile of chains and cuffs.

"Do we think she already-- Do we think Persephone was already here? Or does she send the dog first?" she tosses a loose set of cuffs down. "'Cause I'm really hoping she already freed whoever was being held here."

"These might have been sitting here a while. They." Dean grimaces. "Whoever this was mighta been sold already."

Chuck realizes he only saw two bodies on the porch, one in the living room. He didn't find any on his sweep.

"Bodies?" he asks vaguely.

"I found one in that bathtub," Charlie points above her. Shrugs. "But that's it."

"And there were the ones outside. Nobody-" Dean's voice cuts out. He clears his throat. "Nobody we recognize, right?"

"They're pretty destroyed. But no clothes I recognize."

Chuck turns away and heads up to where she pointed.

On the main floor he heads east and finds yet another huge bedroom. A big bathroom attached. In the tub is a lumpy mess with clawed hands frozen in a desperate scrabble for freedom.

He holds his breath and steps over the remains of the door.

He gets close, looks over the bloody, dripping contents of the tub.

But the bottom jaw was ripped off and is completely missing. He can't tell.

He turns toward the living room.

Dean and Charlie exit the basement and he just walks past them.

"Chuck," Dean says.

But he can follow if he wants.

Chuck knows this body is in better condition. He got up close and personal when he tripped over it.

He gets close but Cerberus is licking its wounds and only one head turns to snap at him.

Chuck snags the body and hauls it a little away, toward the remaining light of sunset.

He still can't see. He puts the shotgun down and searches his pockets for his glasses. "Lights," he requests when Dean and Charlie find him.

Charlie finds a light switch as Dean pulls a small flashlight from his pocket.

Chuck straightens his glasses on his face and takes it from him. The room light is still too dim to tell.

He turns the corpse's face into the flashlight beam. Inspects the mouth.

Not a drop of blood. This one was simply gutted. Might have been dozing on the couch when it happened. A cursory glance shows no defensive wounds.

And the mouth is clean.

No stains. "No pomegranate," he says aloud.

Dean stoops next to him and he shows him. "So the dog hits first. She hasn't shown up to the party yet. She has the souls eat the seeds." He rises again. "Good. We can give her a proper welcome. When her puppy doesn't come back, she'll sure as shit come to find out why even if she's not interested in sharing snacks."

Dean turns back to the dog. Charlie turns to discuss strategy with him.

That gives Chuck the chance to pick the shotgun back up and go out into the hall.

It's pitch in here, already. No light from sunset. All the rooms are darkening except the one Charlie flipped the light on in.

Chuck wakes up his phone.

His silent phone.

He checks the time and tucks himself into a bare corner to freak out for a solid minute.

He stands the gun against the wall and pulls his arms tight around himself and closes his eyes.

There in his head he can see Sam. Starting with his hands. And ending with a bloody gape in his head, a missing jaw.

Oh god.  
Oh god.

This is the first time he's really realized that Sam could be dead.

He is never dead. He's been through everything in the world. What's another angry goddess? What's another hellhound?

But Sam is also soft, giving flesh when Chuck's hands grab for his shoulders, rub at his neck, when he kisses Sam. He's been killed and wounded and Chuck isn't allowed to keep going, he can't keep thinking about this, he's gotta stop, but-

He can't find a living image of Sam in all his memories. All he sees is.

He opens his eyes.

He takes the gun back up.

Cerberus is curled up on the floor.

Chuck gets the tongs from the fireplace set.

He puts his foot down on the right neck and the other two ineffectually bite for him as he holds it down and exposes the teeth.

It seems the poison fangs may have been bullshit. Unless they get a high-powered light in here to simulate the effect of daylight on it. But fuck that, it's already strapped down.

He grinds his foot at its neck making it howl, low.

Dean and Charlie wander closer.

Chuck pokes at the scales now.

"Whatcha up to, Chuck?" Dean asks, wary.

Chuck considers what he's seeing here. The underside seems to be less protected, like the legs.

He tries to lift up a scale.

"Knife?" He asks.

Dean comes up with the demon blade. But pulls out an angel sword and hands it over. Chuck exchanges it for the gun.

Dean steps on the dog's face and it struggles but Chuck can awkwardly crouch to pry a scale up. As he suspected, the scale is gummy underneath, the heat of the burning holy oil cooked the flesh underneath raw and bloody.

The dog thrashes something awful, but it can be done.

He rises and moves back, assessing.

He looks to each of the three heads. To the back legs, already healing from the iron shot.

If it's possible for the heads to be different at all, have different personalities--

Well, it kinda seems like that, already.

The right head seems slowest. A brute. The left is keener. It was the one sniffing the wind, listening close.

What if another of the legends is true?

He uses the blade. Points to the one Dean has his boot on.

"Am I cutting this one off?" he asks. "Because you know I'd be thrilled."

But Chuck shakes his head.

"No." He points to the left head. "That one."

"Any particular reason?" Charlie asks, still uncomfortable with the prospect of mutilation.

"Because it's already whimpering," he points out.

Dean steps back to look, too.

The right still looks mindlessly angry. The middle is huffing, staring them down and growling in turn, as if ready to be attacked.

The left is whining.

"Why?" Dean asks. "If it's the weakest I'd rather save it for last."

"No," Chuck points again.

Right side. "Past."  
Middle. "Present."  
Left side. "And that one already knows it's dead."

"You're saying this dog can see the future??" Charlie asks.

"Sense it, maybe. So we take that away from it," he passes the blade back to Dean. Turns to him. Because he's a good soldier, Dean waits.

"From the underside of the neck. Then pry up the scales to finish." Chuck nods to him. "Do it."

Dean's smile is small and it should be terrifying.

Chuck trusts it too much to feel anything but satisfaction.

«»

It might be the howls that call her in.

They haven't prepped the house or decided where they really want this showdown to happen and then there's a silhouette in the hall.

The temperature changes like ten degrees in an instant and Dean steps forward, hands stained with black blood, hastily wiped on the furniture. He gets Chuck behind him and raises the angel blade.

She emerges into the dim living room light.

Swathed in the softest folds of pink. Stunning against her dark skin. Smelling floral. Tall enough to have to crouch through the doorway slightly. Her hair is brought up in the back. Elegant curls tumble from the black mass of it. Her eyes are violet. Her neck is long.

She really is drop-dead gorgeous.  
How apropos.

"That's far enough, sister," Dean says.

Charlie comes up to Chuck's side, swords drawn.

Chuck is unarmed. The shotgun is on the counter in the kitchen.

A wind kicks up through the sliding door behind them.

"Persephone?" Charlie asks.

She inclines her head.

"Fan of your work. Seriously. Thanks for busting up a people-stealing ring."

"You got two by mistake, though," Dean cocks his head. Points to her. "One of 'em's about as big as you. The other's in a tan jacket? Tie?"

"Castiel," she agrees with a nod. The one word given as much majesty by her voice as the angels once sung of their brother before he became a sympathizing, pain-in-the-ass Winchester.

"Yeah. We're gonna need them back, now."

She shifts. Smiles.  
"No."

"If you still want what's left of your dog," Chuck motions Charlie to the side, revealing Cerberus, "you're gonna reconsider."

Persephone takes in the look of it, her face falling. Cerberus struggles to stand but mostly manages at the sight of its master.

She turns her eyes back on Dean, then.

Glares.

And every remaining stick of furniture falls to ash where it lay. They stagger as their feet drop to the concrete that used to be covered in wood paneling, it and the carpet vaporized.

Dean, Charlie, and Chuck back up as one unit, defensive, when she paces forward two steps trailing fresh, green vines. Metal springs and nails roll around their feet. The wood and cotton cushions holding them together obliterated. The house rattles.

Chuck moves forward because fuck this shit. She hasn't said one word about Sam and if he's not alive, Chuck is gonna set Dean at her throat. He brought his own fucking mad dog to this fight. He doesn't need a weapon in his hand.

He avoids Dean's arm as he stretches the stop him.

"Don't make us do this. We don't wanna do this. You can hunt down all the scumbags you want but our people are the good guys. Give them back to us."

"Good guys," she sneers, tossing her head in the direction of the dog.

"Means to an end, lady. And for the low price of two Winchesters, I promise I'll stop Dean from removing the two other heads. That's the perfect trade. Give Sam and Cas back to us. Right now."

The wind kicks up again.

She reaches for something.

Shadows are swept in by the wind and she hauls Cas out of them and shoves him to the floor. "You want this back?" she challenges? "This thief? This violator?" she cocks an eyebrow.

Cas's arms are bound behind him with what looks like a mess of golden wires. He looks beat up, his clothes torn. To look that way, his healing must be negated or muted. She must be old enough or steeped enough in death magic to override his programming.

Dean is breathing heavy, the blade ticking in his hand.

"He's not a thief. He's like a really okay guy once you get to know him," Chuck says, feeling sorry he can't claim more.

Cas just sighs and rolls to his side, trying to sit up, in obvious pain.

"He's ours. Our friend, our family. So yeah, we want him back," he adds.

"You would call him a friend when he's stolen the body he's using?"

"It's not stolen?" Chuck says, confused. "It can't work like that. He's an angel."

"And you call that person 'it.' You don't recognize a being with autonomy," she scowls.

"That's not-- Jimmy's dead. The vessel is empty," Chuck tries to explain.

She cuts him off, "I've heard this before. It's tiresome," and she does truly look badgered. "Sam Winchester insisted the same. The only reason this creature isn't a stain on the ground is because of his appeals. But I see no evidence that any of you would understand what the person inside that body has gone through."

Chuck's jaw is locked at the mention of him so it's a good thing Dean has found his calm. "And where the hell are you keeping my brother, _against his will_?" He makes his point with the stained blade.

"He is being protected. Clearly he needs it. He has been violated by others," she motions to Cas, "like this one. They've left him doubting his very mind. You are his brother and you let this happen?" she challenges.

No. No, no. Chuck walks in front of Dean and gives him an _eye_ so he knows he should keep fucking quiet. "No one wanted those things to happen to Sam. Least of all us. He made sacrifices for us. For the whole world. And those days are over," he cuts the air with a hand. "That'll never happen to him again."

Persephone smiles. "Certainly not under my protection."

"Um. Does he _want_ to stay under your protection? Because I donno. I think he'd rather be with his family," Chuck motions between Charlie, Dean, Cas.

"That anyone would refuse the protection of the gods-" she scoffs, but Chuck jumps in-

"Oh, so you speak for him now, too? You get to have Sam's voice? You get to make his decisions?"

She considers Chuck for a long moment. Then turns and drifts off into the dark. As soon as Dean can't see her, he sprints forward, drops to his knees and starts tugging at the gold bindings around Cas's arms. Just as Cas starts warning him not to, the thin wires start hissing and smoking and transforming into actual fucking snakes. Dean falls back, stumbling.

"You can't," Cas tries to tell him again. "I can barely hold it together, they _will_ wound you, Dean. You can't."

The snakes solidify back into gold right before their eyes. Dean scrambles for the angel blade again and starts trying to use it to saw at the binds. Charlie has to run up and stop him. "Dean. Dean! Stop, look, you're hurting him, you have to stop."

Cas really is in pain as the bindings seem to go tighter at the assault.

She pulls Dean away just in time for Persephone to emerge from the dark.

With Sam.

Sam eyes her and goes to keep moving forward but Persephone stops. She's tall enough to look him directly in the eyes.

He hesitates. Then stops and gives her his attention.

"Look at them." Persephone points to Charlie and Dean crouched on the floor, panicked. And Chuck she seems to dismiss with a slight wave. "I can show you justice. Give you protection. But the choice is yours. If you would be released. For them to stand idly by and watch you 'sacrifice' yourself. Your very own self. Again and again. As they do nothing," she sneers.

"That is not fucking true," Chuck walks recklessly forward, pissed. Sam's eyes warn him not to, even Dean makes an abortive reach for him as he passes. He comes right up to Sam like he couldn't even refuse the pull if he tried.

He holds out his hand. Open palm.

"I'm here now. I'm in his life now and that will never happen to him again. No one will ever get into Sam's skin ever. No one will fucking touch him." He locks eyes with Persephone and his hand doesn't waver. "That's my job now. No one will fucking touch him without his permission. They'll fucking pay for it. And so will you if you don't shut up and let him decide."

He dismisses her by refocusing on Sam and acting like she isn't even there.

Sam looks a little... stunned.

Chuck doesn't look away to see what Sam checks in her face. When Sam's fingers slip into his hand, he simply knots them together and turns away, pulling Sam with him. He returns to where Dean and Charlie are regaining their feet. Pulls Sam behind him and asks, with his eyes, for Sam to stay there. Sam nods and Chuck turns back to look at Persephone. Sam won't let his hand go.

"Let Cas out of the binds," he demands.

Persephone slowly smirks. "You may be in a position to convince Sam but not me," she shakes her head. "This one is a violator, not a victim."

"That's not true either, and you know it."

"Oh, I don't know it," she shakes her head. "I have seen no evidence to the contrary. All I see is a foreigner occupying a space not built for him."

It doesn't help that it basically was built for him. That doesn't make Jimmy Novak any more alive.

"We can prove it," Sam says, "I told you we could."

"The girl Claire?" Persephone shrugs. "She's not here. I have no patience for your-"

"We'll give Cerberus back in exchange for time," Sam jumps in.

Chuck cringes, internally. It's entirely possible that Cas is only still alive because they took her weapon away.

"We don't want these assholes to go on enslaving women. You hunt them for the rest of the night with your dog and meet us tomorrow night before you start again. Then you give us Cas and we leave you to your business. You said you're almost done anyway," Sam seems to remind her.

She considers Sam and no one else.

"Release Cerberus," she requests.

"And?" Dean challenges.

"You have until sunrise."

"Tomorrow," Dean demands.

She shakes her head.

"Take the snakes off," Charlie pleads. "Cas won't go anywhere, will you, Cas? You're hurting him-- and the body he's in!" she points out as it occurs to her. "If you're right about him, you're harming a body that can't object."

Persephone is silent. Considering.

"Let Cerberus go," she says, and Dean scrambles away with Charlie as Persephone steps forward. She scoops the restraints off Cas's arms and they turn to limp gold thread in her hand.

Cas shakes his arms out and pushes to his feet.

Sam turns to undo the dog's chains immediately. Charlie shakes Dean off and helps. Pulls the firepoker out of its hind leg. The left head isn't there to snap at her for it. But the wound is already closing. It will be three-headed again someday soon.

"Swear to it," Dean demands of her. "We have until sunrise and you don't change your mind and kill him."

Cerberus shakes loose the last of the chains and whimpers, turning immediately to Persephone, limping to her arms.

She strokes the dog and says it again: "Sunrise. Leave. Now."

And she disappears into sweeping shadows with Cerberus and Cas just as Dean is stalking forward.

"DAMMNIT!" he shouts at the hollow wind.

«»

Charlie is getting pretty good at calming Dean down. It's tough this time, though. She follows him as he marches off into the dark, across the property, hands clamped against his head, still a bloody black mess. She calls after him but Dean really just needs to calm down. He needs to think. Sam strains after him, too, but he's still got Chuck's hand held tight. And Chuck is under the light, outside the front door, doesn't want to escape into the dark right now. He's still compartmentalizing what happened and the fact that he was kind of a major player, directly responsible for the mutilation of a horrific and ancient creature, and the actual winner of a tug-o-war for Sam.

Sam Sam Sam who is right here right now.

Sam is pulling away again to go to Dean when his voice finally floats back to them, angry and strained.

Chuck lets go because that's a tug he's in no way stronger than.

Sam looks back at him which he doesn't quite register until he's close once more, a wall in front of Chuck's faraway stare.

Sam scoops his hands under Chuck's head and looks for his eyes to answer.

When Chuck finally focuses, Sam smiles. Bright. Loving. Amazing. "Hey, hermit crab."

Chuck lifts his own to press Sam's hands into his face. He just wants to be small enough to fit into Sam's palms entirely. They're the best place in the world.

"Hey."

"I have to do like a full evaluation to make sure you're okay, you know that, right?"

"I'll get practice at that, I guess. But Dean-"

"We're gonna work on that. It'll be okay. We have a plan. I need you to tell me what day it is."

"You're the fucking victim here, I-"

"Technically, but not really. Anyway, this is sorta my _job_ , so-"

"It's Monday."

"Can you feel your legs right now? Because I think I'm pretty much holding you up on my own."

Chuck tries to straighten up but then he's just shaking his head, slumping into Sam. Sam wraps him up and leads him out toward the car. They get down the road without separating, watching the distance as Charlie has Dean stopped in the middle of the road talking him down.

Sam sits him in the back seat of the Impala, like after Chuck had to behead the vamp. He sweeps his hands over Chuck's face. Then his arms, turning them over, checking his palms, looking for damage. He presses close to kiss Chuck's head, then urges him further into the car, closing the door and leaving him safe within.

It's too easy to love this car, a full-on guardian in Chuck's head. A looming, living presence. He shifts on the seat and curls against the door, blinking out just through the bottom of the window at the empty house, listening for howls that don't come.

Sam comes back, long minutes later, with his brother. Chuck doesn't listen to the arguments outside. He just tries to breathe.

Eventually, Charlie breaks away and gets into the front passenger seat. She pulls a computer out of her bag and gets to work on something. Chuck turns to watch Sam and Dean standing close. Sam grabbing at Dean's coat and rattling him on occasion to get him to listen.

Dean grabs his door open, tosses himself in, and closes back up, at one with the seat and pulling strength from the steering wheel. Breathing for a while.

Sam is the last to get in. He opens the door behind Dean and dips low to sit and take his place next to Chuck. He digs around in the footwell and comes up with something. Reaches over and wedges a flannel shirt under Chuck's head, between him and the door, then drops into his seat again.

"So Charlie will hack her the plane tickets and go to the airport to wait. But I think we should talk to Claire and tell her what she's getting into," Sam says.

Dean is silent, still.

"We get her here from South Dakota in... Shit. I think that's a four-hour flight. Plus some to an airport nearby if Charlie can swing it. Even if she's on the plane for six hours, that still gives us three till sunrise. And then we get Cas back."

They can all hear the squeal of movement when Dean's hands tighten on the leather of the steering wheel.

Sam glances to Chuck again. Chuck closes his eyes.

"C'mon. Start the car. We dig up more on Persephone. Find a way to stop her if this doesn't work."

The way Dean jolts the car to life says that stopping her isn't on his mind so much as strangling her.

Chuck unbunches the flannel and huddles under it. Sam reaches over to draw him in so he doesn't hesitate to slide across the seat and into Sam's space.

Charlie makes a few phone calls to some airlines and even a private pilot. But no one else talks on the 40 minutes back to base.

Until Sam presses his lips to Chuck's ear, when they're almost back. "Thank you," he whispers, "Love you. So much." Can't seem to think of anything else. But his arms are tight around Chuck and he hears that loud and clear.

«»

Charlie left immediately for the airfield. She got Claire's number from Sam and she didn't seem too keen on sticking around to watch Dean's hollow look pacing the parking lot. Waiting for calls, updates from Jody on getting Claire on the flight.

Sam and Chuck are back in Dean and Cas's room. They sit on Dean's bed, leaving Cas's alone.

Chuck rises. He's had Sam back for an hour now. He thinks he can let him stay here with his brother. Help him calm down. "I'm gonna get some stuff from our room. I'll be right back."

Sam catches his hand up. "You're not going anywhere without me," he shakes his head.

He sure as hell doesn't want to refuse. So Chuck tugs him up and they round the building to room 23.

They change clothes and stack books to bring back over to the other room. Just in case they've gotta have a plan set up to kill her.

Sam stops, eventually. Moves from distracted to determined, and hooks Chuck's arm as he passes. He pulls Chuck around and holds his head still in his big hands again. "You," Sam just says.

He looks totally torn. Dean is on the other side of the building. Having Sam back but not Cas- that's not a deal at all. They all know how losing Cas would leave a very large part of Dean behind to rot.

Sam gets this back but his brother still loses. They all do. Cas is family. "We won't leave without him," Chuck says.

Sam nods but still looks crushed. Cas is almost like a younger brother, in a weird way. One of his very few friends. Family. And it hurts him. He probably spent the whole time with Persephone campaigning for Cas to keep his life.

Chuck reaches up, pushes his fingers up into Sam's hair at the back. Pulls his head down to rest against his own. But Sam gets there and keeps sinking. He pushes Chuck to a sit on the bed and drops all the way to his knees. Parts Chuck's legs and crawls between them. Settles wrapped warm around Chuck's achy car wreck leg. He just sits there and hugs.

Chuck draws him closer. Scoots to get his left leg over Sam's shoulder and pretzels around him, hugging his head.

In their weird, comforting little pile, Sam closes his eyes and prays. Chuck knows where it goes but not what it says. "She'll do it," he says aloud, at last. "She'll listen to Claire. She has to."

"I hope so. I hope it's that easy."

"She listened to you."

"I am a lot more convincing when it comes to you. I'm biased," he kisses Sam's head. "I have to tell you something."

Sam blinks slow up at him.

"I meant it. It's my job. The only real one that's ever mattered. I will never let anything crawl into you again. It will never happen again. Not ever. I wanna get in an all-out, no-rules, dirty fight fucking brawl with whoever the fuck deity goddamn decided it was okay to make that a dominate factor in your life. I wanna fucking firebomb all the pissant clones in heaven and wreck the faces of everybody who ever tried to touch you without asking permission. I am not fucking around. The next motherfucker who picks a fight with you will always lose even if you can't take them on yourself."

Sam doesn't say anything. He just stares. Chuck knows his words are overblown, unbelievable in the most basic sense - not to be believed. He can't back them up. But, fuck him if he wouldn't try.

He pushes Sam's hair back from his face. "We have a few hours until Claire gets here. Let's go take Dean someplace to eat."

"He won't go. He won't eat."

"Cas would want him to. We resolve ourselves to boldfaced manipulation. And find a place to get my tattoo. Since we have time."

Sam shakes his head. "Not yet."

Chuck tries to stay solid, "I should do it now and get it over with." While he's feeling the least bit invincible.

Sam pulls back some. "No. You know what my job is? I'm the guy who keeps you from being in pain. I take the pain away. I do that now. Me," he insists, almost angry. "I won't let you do something that'll take you from stressed-out to stressed-out and _in pain_. We'll do it later."

Sam presses his face into Chuck's thigh. Just to breathe. Then he blinks up again. "She's right about a lot of this. And so." He swallows. "What I want. What I'm asking. Is permission to be in charge of that. For you. Between you and me. I want your permission to take care of you."

The only reason he doesn't answer right away is so that it seems like he gives it actual consideration. In reality, there's nothing to consider. He wants Sam to have that as much as he wants Sam to physically move him wherever he needs to go. He wants it in the hands of someone who would ask for it. Who wouldn't want that? It's not a matter of consent for him like it is for Sam. It's all he wants.

So. He makes up some conditions on the fly. And is surprised to find they're also what he wants.

"Only if you don't step on me. Or over me. Or keep me out of the loop. You don't get to decide what I need to know. You don't lie to me to save my life. Not while you ever have respect for me."

Sam untangles himself and rises. He sits next to Chuck on the bed. Takes up his writing hand and kisses the knuckles Sandalphon once crushed. And, "I love you," Chuck repeats, not as dazed as the first time.

And Sam's willing to accept it now. "I love _you_ ," he nods. "Say it."

Chuck sighs. "You get to override my dumbass decisions. You get to decide how to keep me from hurting."

"You get our backs," Sam says. "You won't let anybody touch me. I--"

"You will remember to list off the reasons you won't lie to me before you decide to lie to me. Out loud. Starting with the very first Winchester consequence. Because I know you wouldn't agree to pour blood in my mouth."

Putting that image in Sam's head is harsh. And entirely intentional. He won't be able to wash it out. He WILL remember.

"I won't lie to you. I won't hide things from you." Sam takes a deep breath.  
"Yes," he says. Like the big archangel Yes.

"You know how to take care of people. So you're gonna take care of me."  
Chuck squeezes his hand. "Yes."

«»

They pry Dean off the walls and stuff him in the driver's seat.

They go to some kind of roadhouse with a huge bar and peanut shells on the floor. Sam makes Dean eat half a burger and doesn't let anybody have beer.

They drive to the airport with a to-go box for Charlie. She comes back out to the parking lot to sit in the passenger seat next to Dean. She eats a fry, she gives one to Dean. She eats a fry, she gives one to Dean. And so on. Sam and Chuck get out because Dean won't talk to them right now but he might talk to his sister. That's what he needs. They give him some space. 

Outside, Sam tells him what it was like with Persephone. That she was respectful of him and enraged at the world. Him and Cas were just in the wrong place at the wrong time and she snatched Cas up. When Sam pursued, she recognized him as damaged. Wanted to serve him his own justice after she was done with her first mission. He spoke in circles with her trying to keep Cas alive. He understood where she was coming from. And he only had so much disagreement left in him after hearing how she'd been brought here.

"She's almost done, too. She's pretty efficient. She was summoned, specifically, to end the people in the human trafficking ring. This woman found out how her sister had turned up dead. She came to America to follow her path here and she found out she'd been lured in by that fake exchange program. She couldn't get the cops to help. So," Sam shrugs. "She turned to her gods. And Persephone was happy to answer. She doesn't like it when people get hijacked. She thinks she can sense the bad guys. But we know Cas isn't one of them. Her senses are probably thrown off by him. Like how that room full of gods didn't know Gabriel was an archangel."

Chuck nods, sifting through memories. "I think that makes sense. And it probably doesn't make her amenable to reasoning on the subject. They're not wild about monotheism in general."

Sam keeps shaking his head. "What if I tried too hard? What if I said something that makes her refuse to change her mind? Monsters aren't great at changing their ways."

"She may be a monster but I'm fucked if she doesn't make sense. The fact of the matter is that Cas had Novak's consent. She's only mildly wrong on this one. We have to hope she just doesn't slip into a rage that's beyond her _reason_."

"But then what? We let her go? Just because she's one of the gods who _does_ happen to see reason?"

"I don't think Dean will agree with it, but," he shrugs, "yeah. Sorry if I don't give a shit that her mission in life is to kill people who enslave other people. I know you hate being judge, jury, and executioner but. Fuck those guys."

Sam hesitates. "Cas might not agree, either. There are other fallen angels still out there in borrowed vessels. What if she comes across them?"

"They stuck around down here. Let them vouch for their own consent if they can. We need Cas and we have multiple witnesses to his condition. Cas is our problem. The other angels aren't."

Sam smiles, wry. "I forget that you don't like angels, like, _at all_."

"I have issues, what else is new?"

"Thanks for understanding how it is with Cas, though. He's. We're- He's a better friend than I've been to him."

"Family," Chuck shrugs.

"I guess we treat family like shit," Sam frowns. "At least I do."

"Well that's a vile misrepresentation," Chuck says, walking up and balancing on a curb. He only gains a few inches on Sam. "Your family is complicated. It's not a matter of being mean or nice. It's what you have to do to keep them alive. Keep yourself alive by keeping them alive."

Sam takes his hand and helps him balance across the narrow parking lot curbs, walking parallel. At the far end of the row he pulls Chuck to a stop. Doesn't have to look as far down to kiss him. A plane comes in loud and directly overhead.

"I'm probably never gonna get to take you to Paris or anything," Sam smiles.

"Do you know how many Parises there are in this damn copycat-ass country? America. Fuck yeah. Who needs France?"

"You're afraid of flying, too, aren't you?" he tugs and Chuck wobbles on the chock.

"Specifically I'm afraid of being sat next to somebody who gets airsick because as they go," he motions, fake-heaving, "I go. The flying is fine, the people are awful."

"You are, generally, an _anti_ -people person."

Chuck attempts to make a joke out of it but just sputters, "Uh. Yeah."

"You like me, though?"

"Why was that inflected as a question?"

"It's kind of important to me. To be one of the few people you like," Sam half-smiles, like he's hoping but he's not sure.

"Oh my god. You're _the_ one. You're my fave."

Sam smiles huge and warm. "Nah, the other one."

" _Significant other_."

"Yeah, hop down," Sam draws him over to the next row to start balancing his way across the parking lot again.

"Lemme ask you something. What did Dean say when you took control of the hunt?"

"He wanted to go in, guns blazing, the usual. Me n' Charlie teamed up on him. She's a lot more cutthroat than me, though. She's her own brand of scary. You should've seen Dean's face."

"Man, I hope that happens more often," Sam sounds wistful. "A whole family to filter all these bullshit decisions through. I love this. I love that we picked up you and Cas and Charlie and Jody. I wish we could get her and the girls closer."

Chuck's opinion on this is not valid. He doesn't necessarily want to live in a crowded family again. He could do it, for Sam. But he hates the idea of growing obligations on Alex and Claire. Sam's talked about them. They're young. Not too young to hunt. But too young to get stuck in another family they didn't sign up for. Which might be a fucked up order of priorities, but the Winchester definition of "family" is a deep and heavy thing. More permanent than any of the hundreds of monsters they strike down, no matter how immortal they claim to be.

Anyway. Chuck likes small. He likes quiet. He keeps his mouth shut.

He'll have to grow. Chuck will have to change for this. More than he has already.

"I'm gonna fall down, my knee is fuckin' up," he pauses mid-step.

Sam just comes in and gives up his hand to loop an arm around his waist. They keep moving forward. Chuck balancing. Sam his stabilizer.

"I'm gonna have to practice guns, aren't I?" he whines.

Sam grimaces. "We'll see. I start panicking when I remember you don't carry. We're gonna have to find out what your strengths are and work from there. For some reason Dean keeps talking about giving you an angel blade. I tend to trust his instincts on those kinda things. He's got an eye for it. I don't even know where he gets it, but it works."

"Hey, hold up for a second?"

Sam stops, secures his arm around Chuck where he's balanced, "Is your knee-?"

"No, I just have to be embarrassingly earnest for a second," he pushes at Sam's shoulder so he looks at him, "I don't know where this is even coming from: I love you. Don't stop touching me."

"Okay. Wasn't planning on it."

"Sorry. I know you're the one who got traumatized this time, but it's been two really long days and-" his voice chokes out on him.

" _Chuck_ -"

"Holy shit. Sorry. I'm just suddenly really exhausted and I miss you."

He palms Chuck's face. "I'm right here."

"I know. I had like six weeks without you, though, and three days with you and if she had killed you it would have been a lot longer without and that just occurred to me and I wanna get fucking _wrecked_."

Sam pulls him off the curb and turns him, "Okay, sweetheart, time to breathe."

Chuck follows his example and breathes while Sam pets his neck. Then they sit down in the parking space. He drops his head into his hands. 

"So much more is going on right now than my piddling little shit. Cas is still gone and Dean is gonna snap and I don't get to fall apart right now just because I'm not used to it."

Sam actually laughs.

He starts rubbing Chuck's back and presses his nose into Chuck's hair. "I don't want you to get used to it. I don't care if you fall apart as long as you don't hide it from me. So you're doing pretty good in my book."

"When am I gonna get to stop saying that I love you? It's so repetitive. It feels truer every time. I sound ridiculous."

"I don't mind."

"I do. It's about creative integrity, Sam."

"No. It's like the perfect story. You read it over and over because it feels so good. You notice something new every time."

"New? What the hell are you getting out of this that's new?"

"Well, for one I'm noticing that you have very little self control, so it's a good thing we're stacking mine on top of it. For two, I just get more and more satisfied that you're in as deep as I am."

"Oh," Chuck blinks. "Okay. That's nice."

"Chuck?"

He scoots closer. "Hm?"

"Will you please move in with me?"

"We're doing that. Once we get Cas back, we're gonna head to Kansas and we can pick up some stuff from the bunker, but I'm requisitioning you for a month. My apartment first. Then we can do a month at the bunker and choose which one is better." He's said it several times since he decided. But he knows Sam needs to hear it again.

All the air gusts out of him. He slumps against Chuck. "You sure?"

"Fucking A right I'm sure."

"No take-backs."

"There are rules."

"Lay 'em on me."

"You get the stuff off the top shelf. I'm not climbing shit anymore."

"Obviously."

"If you wake up before me, you wait for me to wake up. Stop wandering off."

"What if I'm hungry? I'm normally hungry way before you're ready to function."

"Did no one ever teach you to roll over and go back to sleep?"

He reaches around Chuck and squeezes him. "What if I get up and make the coffee?"

"Exception to rule two: You may get up and bring back coffee."

"What about breakfast in-"

"No food in bed, no. That is a bad habit you picked up in motels."

"But it's kind of a romantic gesture to people," Sam wheedles.

"It's also a really romantic way to get ants in your bedroom. Overruled."

"Your practicality is fucking killing it right now. I had no idea you were so level-headed."

Chuck glares. "Running out of ice cubes is unacceptable and that's what the baseball bat is for."

"... Do you _bludgeon me_ with the bat if we run out?"

"No, the bat is for the ice cubes."

"Oh thank fuck, you were making way too much sense for a minute there."

"I'm not doing the upkeep on the wards you laid. That's a Sam job."

"That normally is anyway."

"You need to start telling me when I can sit in your lap. I don't wanna be all over you so much it gets annoying," he picks at a thread in his jacket. "And you have to tell me when I get annoying at all because if I end up in some dispassionate emotional stalemate with you it will be a complete waste of my entire life."

Sam doesn't say anything.

"I would rather crawl away and die in the quiet than drive you off."  
He finally looks back up at Sam again. "Those are the house rules."

Sam nods. "Those are a lot more flexible and reasonable than the bunker rules. We have a time-out corner for people who attempt to raise the dead."

Chuck huddles into Sam.

"I am... fucking in awe of you. Of how you're handling this and still managing to love me at the same time. I do get annoyed sometimes," Sam admits. "I get annoyed when you stay quiet instead of telling me what you need. So I think I'm just gonna have to get better at realizing that's happening and snap you out of it before you drift away. And if I ever do get sick of having you all over me, I promise I'll let you know. But I doubt that'll ever happen. I really doubt it."

"We're pretty self-absorbed," Chuck notes, looking over Sam's shoulder toward the Impala.

"He needs to talk to Charlie. He really does. He won't talk to me and I never understand why. But. It's him. It's just him. So if he won't talk to me then you've gotta entertain me. I thought we talked so much on the phone but now I need like twice that. Nothing makes me happier or calmer or teaches me more than you just talking. Nothing has ever turned me on as much as the way you talk, either. I had no idea what I was missing."

Chuck considers this. "I didn't know I had this much to say."

"You've been alone. For a while."

"I thought I was okay."

Sam's head only wavers.

"Well, I didn't think of being an alcoholic as _bad_ , Sam."

"I was going more for the obvious, Mr. Edlund."

"Oh." Chuck pats at Sam's pocket and finds his phone and digs it out. "PIN," he demands.

"You don't know it?"

Chuck groans and scratches the back of his neck.

OH. Yeah. Okay. But then 0124 doesn't do it.

He rolls his eyes. "You did that on purpose."

"Yeah. 6115."

"That's my address."

"See? You did know it," he stands up and pops his neck, stretches, then steps to either side of Chuck and sits behind him, on the wheel stop. Solid and warm against Chuck's back, legs bracketing him in.

Chuck finds what he was looking for, holds up the phone. "Hey, cheeseball. That's like two pen names ago."

Sam looks at the screen with his contacts listed. "I never really thought about it until recently. It was a great name. And I didn't want to put your real name in there, you know, just in case."

"Carver Edlund," he reads off the screen, shakes his head, and starts to edit the contact.

Sam snatches the phone back and then attempts to distract Chuck with nuzzling.

"Oh, you're so easy," Chuck shakes his head. "How many did you go back and read?"

Sam pointedly does not answer. His arms go around Chuck and hold him in place.

That's bad news, though, because Chuck could legitimately sleep right now. He really is tired. But they've got hours, still, until they have Claire and can take her back to Persephone.

He's sitting on fucking concrete but the way Sam is enveloping him, he could pass out exactly where he is. Sam has got to be tired by now. Exhausted from the ordeal, unless Cas helped with that when they were still in Persephone's custody. In Chuck's case, only four hours sleep and a whole fucking lot of worrying and fear had him wrung out hours ago. If Sam is in better shape, it's because he's used to the abuse.

Sam drops kisses on his neck and Chuck's eyes droop.

"No," he whines, low.

"No?"

"I have to stand up," he says without any conviction at all.

"You wanna go back to the car and sleep?"

"Charlie and Dean."

"Dean isn't leaving until Claire gets here, I don't think," he starts to move and then he hesitates. "I'm gonna pick you up," he warns.

"You don't have to, I'm standing up," he says without standing up.

"Do you really-- nevermind," he shakes his head and turns Chuck, draws his arms up. "I'm allowed to do this," he assures himself out loud. Still getting comfortable with the idea that Chuck has given him so much authority over his body.

Chuck clings when Sam puts Chuck's arms around his neck. Then he shifts to the ground again and pulls Chuck into his lap, wraps around him.

"I've sat in more uncomfortable places for longer. Sleep. I'll wake you up in thirty minutes when my butt goes numb."

Chuck doesn't want Dean to look over Charlie's head and across the parking lot and see Sam and him all cozy. He has a feeling it'll be like salt in a wound. But Dean hasn't really given him shit since Sam and Cas disappeared. And Chuck was involved in getting Sam back. Considering Sam is priority number one for both of them, it's possible Dean will just start seeing this as fact. That would be nice and simple. Dean's already backing off. If he recognizes that Sam is happy and Chuck proves he's capable of handling at least some of the hunting, Dean might possibly leave them to it. With a tolerable amount of interference and griping instead of refusing to give them any room to breathe.

Chuck doesn't want to make Sam hold him on the ground of a wide, empty parking lot. He doesn't want to sleep there. But that's what he ends up doing, dropping off in the crook of Sam's neck as Sam tugs his coat around him, makes sure he's warm. "Holy shit," he whispers amazement, hands spanning Chuck's body, wide and wanting, holding, covetous. "You make me so happy."

It's weird.

Weirder that he wakes up in the Impala, blinking at the back of Charlie's head as it's resting on Dean's shoulder.

Sam is very quiet about the kiss he delivers to Chuck's brow when he notices he's awake. He gives him a few minutes, noses around in Chuck's hair until he yawns, pulls back a little to get his real kiss. Sam hands his phone over, then, tapping open a set of rapid-fire texts from Claire.

 **Charlie updated me on the rest** , he reads at the top.  
**I have 2 conditions.**  
**1 I get to stay at the bunker for spring break I don't want to go to the stupid mexico trip**  
**2 Dean has to stop kicking Castiel to the curb**  
**He said he'd take care of him and all he keeps doing is breaking him**  
**I don't understand why he's with you guys anyway**  
**You treat him like shit**  
**He calls me all the time he sounds miserable**  
**I am pretty sure ur fucking brother is friend dining him**  
***zoning**  
**All he wants is what dean wants it doesn't even make sense**  
**And you tell him I said that shit**  
**Boarding now**

This calls for a dramatic reading. Good thing there's a professional in the car.

Chuck rolls his shoulders and reaches back to scoot off Sam's lap and into the seat next to him. He clears his throat. Charlie startles awake like a small animal.

"I have two conditions," Chuck says, scrolling the screen. "One, I get to stay at the bunker for spring break. I don't wanna go to the stupid Mexico trip. Two, Dean has to stop kicking Castiel to the curb. He said he'd _take care of him_ and all he keeps doing is breaking him. I don't understand why he's with you guys anyway. You treat him like shit. He calls me all the time and he sounds miserable. I'm pretty sure your fucking brother is friend-zoning him. All he wants is what Dean wants. It doesn't even make sense. And you tell Dean," Chuck lowers the phone, "that I absolutely said every word of that shit."

It's silent in the car as Dean flexes his jaw and looks up into the rear-view mirror to stare at him, empty-eyed.

"Timestamp says she boarded the plane about two and a half hours ago."

Charlie turns to look at him, frowning.

"What can I say?" Chuck shrugs, "I know great writing when I see it."

Dean abruptly starts the car.

"We'll get some coffee and come back. Charlie you wanna wait in the terminal or come with?"

She just sits there for a minute until Dean looks at her. "I'll come with."

Dean pulls out of the space and heads back toward civilization.

Chuck hands Sam's phone back. Sam doesn't exactly look pleased. Maybe worried.

Once he's got it back, he types.

Chuck pulls his phone out to see the text.

**You could have let her say it**

**She wanted Dean to sit on the idea for a while and get comfy with it** , Chuck responds.

He considers another moment, then types, **Charlie and Claire and probably the other women u talked about r gonna be the next generation here. We're gonna have to start trusting that they're paying attention. They really are they know what they're doing.**

This is a conversation they can have later, so he stuffs his phone back in his pocket. As far as Chuck is concerned, the people who are gonna be picking up the mantle next, the hunters who have been left behind by monster attacks, the survivors of _now_ are the next narrow-eyed, keen and deadly scrappers who are gonna end up tearing the throats out of vampires and stalking the things that stalk the night.

It's going to be their world, soon. And Chuck's comfortable with that. They know what it is that they need to know to get by. They will know what they need to ask. What they need to learn. They have better emotional gauges and wider social nets. They're connected, they're ready to accept technology. And they're mostly girls-turned-women who have had to beat back the things that would victimize them.

Dean's not a misogynist, but he gets wrapped up in his and Sam's wisdom and experience too often. He forgets that there's an entire half of the human population that's used to being harassed and hunted and is ready to turn that back on the monsters.

All the kids they've saved are growing up with memories of the nights when their families died. Memories of hunters coming in to vanquish the enemies and stop the bleeding. They _know_ law enforcement isn't there to help them. They _know_ to protect themselves. They have to rebuild themselves in the Winchester image to survive.

And Sam and Dean need to hear that. They need to know that.

They hit an all-nite diner for coffee. Chuck splits a grilled cheese with Charlie. She gives him a sympathetic look over the table, like she thinks the first time Dean's alone in a room with him, he's gonna slap the shit out of him.

Dean wouldn't. He might want to, but now he has the remaining hours until Claire's arrival to consider the truth of what she said. Dean's is the kind of brain that has to shun the facts, shove them in a box, and try to ignore them while they thump away under the bed.

Then he takes them out to examine them when he's feeling low and got nothing else to do.

He's already feeling low. Chuck just dragged the box out from under the bed.

"We could dig into the books until she gets here," Sam offers. "We could see if there's an easier way. We still don't know what could kill Persephone. Or banish her."

"Claire's still got the flight from the big airport to the private field," Charlie says. "That's three hours. At least."

"And six 'till sunrise," Dean says, voice low.

Charlie reaches over and squeezes the hand that's not wrapped around his coffee cup. She keeps it there, leaning her head on her other hand, propped on the table.

Chuck downs the rest of his coffee. "Sam and me'll take Charlie's car back to the motel. Get back to the reading."

She considers them all, one by one.  
She nods.

«»

Sam pulls a screen up with the time and just sets Dean's laptop in the middle of the table while they scour the books and look stuff up on Chuck's computer.

After a while, Sam seems to have been staring at the same page for something like 40 minutes.

"You alive?" Chuck prods. "Maybe you should sleep."

Sam rubs an eye. "Maybe I should. I was just trying to think. Zeus. He's dead. Prometheus."

"This is a hunt I missed?"

Sam nods. Outlines the story.

"Please tell me you have one of those arrows."

"Wish we did. She took the whole messy pile with her when she disappeared."

"Start fucking Googling 'weapons of Artemis,' then," Chuck reaches across a stack of books to open a new tab.

They learn that Artemis had hunting dogs, too. If Cerberus is the original recipe, Chuck assumes that a spinoff will do. "So a hellhound? You think we can turn a hellhound on Persephone?"

Sam blinks. "Um. I donno. Or get her own dog to turn on her."

"We already chopped off one of its heads. I don't think it'll be in a generous mood."

"Well, what would it want to eat? Could we plant something on her?"

"Hellhounds just want to eat flesh. She's not even human flesh so that won't help. And we don't have access to a hellhound on our own."

Sam groans and digs both his hands into his hair. "Unless we called Crowley up."

Chuck would actually really appreciate it if the idea of making little friendship pacts with a demon would come up less often in their conversations. "I thought you had to kill one of his dogs? He probably won't be willing to lend you a pet."

"No kidding."

Sam's phone rings.

"Charlie?" He waits. "Good. Great. We'll meet you there."

"Already?" Chuck asks as he hangs up.

"Yeah. Alright," he slams two books together. "Keep reading. I'll drive. We're going right back to that farm."

They gather their jackets and Sam arms himself, for what little good it will do. He brings an angelic blade and hands Ruby's kn-- the demon-killing blade toward Chuck.

"I don't want that."

"I know. If you don't carry something in there with you, though, I won't be able to let you stand in front of me like last time. I'll completely fucking lose my head. I can't do it, Chuck. Just this one little thing."

"You're not standing in front of me. You're standing next to me. We're standing beside each other. We protect each other."

"Like anyone would really buy that if you don't have a weapon."

"Look, I got her to give you back-"

Sam reaches down and grabs his arm and wraps his hand around the handle of the blade. "None of this pen is mightier than the sword crap, not right now. Chuck?" he puts his hands to his face and makes him look up. "Listen to me. You keep it in your jacket and I will feel fifty percent fucking better. It's all I need. It's all I'm asking right now. If we have to take Cas by force, I'm counting on your instincts to tell you where to run. I know you will. Just take the fucking-"

"Okay. Fine. Okay."

Sam's mouth crashes into his and he backs him into the wall, hard.

Sam is on him for a long moment, then pulls away, takes the knife, carefully places it in Chuck's jacket, and moves back in on him. It feels scrambled and desperate. Chuck kind of wants to stop. So he has to. He turns away and to the side and puts his hand to Sam's throat.

"Sorry," it's immediate.

"S'okay," he breathes hard.

" _Sorry_ ," Sam repeats. "Just one minute? Just one minute. I need this. Just one minute. _Please?_ "

Chuck takes a second. A deep breath. "Okay, hold on."

Another breath and he steps in and Sam puts his hands up slightly. Until Chuck settles against him and pulls his head down.

"I don't like getting shoved into walls," he says, because he just discovered this. It was nothing like being tossed onto a bed or a couch. It was rough and jarring and that's not how he wants them to be.

"Oh god, I'm sorry," he puts his hands over Chuck's on his face.

"It's okay. We learned that today. It's okay. Give me one more and then we gotta go."

Sam nods. He folds over Chuck and hugs him first, then steps back to get his kiss.

Sam is a lot more focused this time. It's truly what he needs. And after, for the first time, Chuck can feel it happen under his hands. Can feel Sam steady and solidify and become the thing entire other species are afraid of. The way he looked after Dean and Cas walked Chuck out of the place where Sandalphon kept him. The way he loomed and marched and wanted only for something to _beat_ to truly embody the thing that demon armies were supposed to follow.

Just to prove to himself he can handle the Sam who stands in front of him, now, Chuck pulls back and puts a thumb to the middle of Sam's lips. Sam kisses it and drags his hand away, folds it over his own, kisses Chuck's knuckles, reverent, with his eyes dipping closed and whole body leaning in. Like he's waiting for a command.

"We can go now," Chuck says.

Sam takes his hand in his own and turns, hands the room key over for Chuck to put in his pocket, carries the books himself, and escorts Chuck out. He opens the car door for Chuck, doesn't shut him in until he's settled, and doesn't start the car until Chuck nods.

Chuck doesn't get as much reading done as he's supposed to. He keeps thinking about how there were times when Dean couldn't call Sam off. Couldn't even fight him into submission when he was hopped up on the demon blood.

Chuck thinks maybe he just found out what he's capable of and, if he were inclined toward evil, that would be such a tempting thing.

Instead, he is inclined toward quiet.

If he never had to feel Sam go into War Mode again, he'd be fine with that.

Maybe he's just discovered why he was plopped down into Sam's life a second time. Rhyme and reason to everything, right? It all circles back around.

That Ignorant Shit in the Sky. What an asshole. What the fuck is It trying to prove?

Chuck's not falling for it. Sam was built to a purpose and Chuck wants to fuck all that up.

Nobody asked permission to build Sam that way. No one asked Sam if he was cool with it. He didn't ask for the thing that's fused into his blood. The thing that makes him a manifestation of power.

Chuck is going to abuse the shit out of this. He's going to give Sam orders. Faith-crushing, life-challenging missions to return with Starbucks by the time he's done writing an article if he wants to see Chuck naked.

_How the fuck do you like that, heaven? I'm going to sex up your machine and use it for **neutral**. He's gonna hold the fuck out of some doors and carry me to bed on command. See how you like that. I'm gonna give him presents on holidays I don't even give a shit about. I'm gonna put him in charge of organizing vacation plans and museum days. See how well you built your demon commander, then, huh? You tapped the wrong guy. I'm gonna refuse entry to every fool who so much as wants to hit on him, let alone run around in his bones. I'm gonna--_

Chuck.  
Is going to bind Sam to himself.

With a full on fucking binding spell. Magic-ass ancient magic, the deepest he can find.

The next time someone rattles Lucifer's cage, they're gonna have to hope Dean can get angel pregnant and make more Winchesters because Sam will be one billion percent off limits.

Yes. Alright. Okay. He'll tell Sam about it when he finds out which one he can use. There are already several creeping vines to follow down his well of unexplored knowledge. Sam will be able to decide if he wants it. He'll try to find a spell that can be done without tying Sam to anyone but himself, but if somebody else has to be involved, Sam will be able to choose who. It'll rebound in some way, so it will have to be a way they can deal with. All magic bounces back somehow. He can puzzle this out and then pull Sam in on the planning. Yes. By then, he'll probably have Sam buying him fucking flowers and designating weekly date nights and folding his socks.

He's always wanted to dick heaven around the way they dicked him around.

And now Sam's dick is gonna be involved, so GUESS WHO WON, YOU FUCKWITS?!

God, yes. First thing when they get back home, he's gonna drop to his knees and worship Sam's cock and blaspheme the night away.

"Fuck the Great Magnet," Chuck says, shaking his head.

"Now you sound like a professional," Sam commends.

«»

They beat the Impala there by two minutes.

Claire climbs out of the front passenger seat, dark-eyed and determined.

She slams the car door a lot harder than Dean would prefer but he doesn't flinch. Just stares at her.

"Deal?" she asks.

"Done," Dean assures her.

Stiff-backed she turns to Charlie, who loops their arms, and they march up with their heads held high.

"Who's this dork?" she asks Sam.

"This is my dork, Chuck," Sam says. Puts his hand to Chuck's back, "Chuck Shurley, Claire Novak."

"Hi," Chuck waves.

"Are you a hunter?"

He shakes his head. "I'm just a dork," he assures her.

"At least somebody here knows their job."

Behind her, Dean's head sinks deeper on his shoulders.

"You know what you're gonna say?" Sam asks.

"To some trumped-up 'god'?" she fingerquotes. "Yeah. She's got the wrong guy. He may not be the smartest. He might be too _trusting_ ," she emphasizes, "but this isn't his fault. I know where my dad is. He's not in there."

"Good. If things get rough-"

"She knows what she's doing," Charlie assures him. She tugs on Claire and tells her, "I've got your back."

"Let's get this over with and go play video games," Claire says.

"Let's," Charlie smiles.

They walk directly into the house.

Dean trails them. Sam and Chuck eye each other and catch up to him.

Sam keeps a hand on his brother's shoulder. Chuck walks beside Sam. The ladies take the lead.

Persephone is in the living room, in the dull light, her head held high, too. She turns to a dark corner and says, "Rise."

Cas steps out. He looks unharmed. Annoyed, but unharmed. His previous thrashing healed and his clothes back in order, so his grace must not be muted anymore.

Dean takes one short, audible breath. "Let him go. Please."

Persephone holds up a finger. "I'll know who he's stolen from. She is your witness?"

"I'm his friend," Claire declares.

"And you seem to be of some relation?"

"He's in a... vessel. That used to be my dad. But my- James Novak is in heaven. He gave his body to Castiel to use, willingly. He did it by asking from within me. He asked to use me as a vessel once, too. There's--"

She stumbles.

"Consent," Charlie says. "There's consent involved."

Claire nods. "He _asked_. We had to say yes. If you ever say no, they can't do it."

"What stops them?" Persephone challenges. "They're much more powerful than you."

Oh, Chuck knows this one. "It's how they're built," he chimes in, "Unwilling vessels will reject an angel. Automatic carnage. The person with the soul goes to heaven, no stops. The vessel explodes. The angel is banished up."

"And you know this, how?"

"It's a built-in punishment/reward system. For other creatures it works like a virus. Like, demons? They can just creep in and take over a human body. Angels were built to protect humans. So if they violate them in a fundamental way like that, they're sent back upstairs and reset."

"Reset," she repeats, wise old eyes narrowed. "And I've no way of proving this without telling him to show me. By exploding one of you," she raises a dubious eyebrow.

"Guess you just have to accept the word of the witness you asked for. Wouldn't it be a violation of Claire to deny that she knows what the truth is?" Chuck challenges. "Wouldn't that be denying her the right to her own understanding? Her own mind?"

Claire glares at Persephone. "Really, lady? You saying I don't know what I'm talking about? Castiel has been in my brain before. I know what he wants and it's not to be walking around in borrowed bodies. He just wants to _do good_. He's like a damn hopeless teenage superhero. Lookit him," she points. "He's one of the few angels you're gonna find down here because he _likes us_. He likes humans, and I don't know why, but I don't think that means he'd go around mowing over their... independence or whatever. And, look-"

Persephone raises a hand. Claire stops speaking but Persephone still waits a moment to talk.

"I find your evidence lacking."

"You knew someone had been riding around in me just from looking at me," Sam objects. "Can't you tell she's been a vessel just from looking at her?"

"The damage is recent in you," Persephone raises an eyebrow, knowing. Seeing.

"The reason you don't see _damage_ in Claire is because she didn't say 'yes' under duress," Chuck says, and isn't aware he's stepped a foot in front of Sam until Sam tugs on the back of his jacket and links their hands, pulling Chuck even.

Persephone sighs. Sighs just at the sight of them, angry and plaguing her. Eating up time in which she could be pursuing those who can't fight back. She looks from Claire to Cas.

Cas doesn't care to look at Persephone anymore. Cas is staring dead at Dean.

"Take care of them," Cas says.

"No, Cas. Hell no, don't do this," Dean shakes his head.

"She's right to a degree. I broke my covenant with Jimmy. I didn't protect his family. I promised."

"Don't say that," Claire has to be tugged back by Charlie.

Sam's hand tenses, tightens. He starts drawing Chuck behind him, inch by inch.

Chuck shakes his hand loose and goes around him, to Dean, grabs his jacket, shakes him so he looks him in the eye. "Say yes to Cas."

Dean's eyes light up. It's simple as anything. Simpler than being a walking weapon with the Mark on his arm. Simpler than watching Cas get punished. Simpler, even, than fighting saying the word to Michael, for years, though Lucifer's rise and a grim view of a dead husk of the future.

Dean moves Chuck aside and Chuck gets caught up and pulled away by Sam. Dean marches forward, past Claire and Charlie. "Yes, Cas. I'm saying yes. Show her how it works."

Cas goes wide-eyed. "You don't want that."

"I just said I did. She said you can't stay in that empty body because you don't have consent. Prove you do. I'm saying yes."

Persephone cocks her head and looks between them.

Dean's stance changes subtly. He's closer to Persephone than anybody else in the room. If Cas doesn't do it, Dean will start drawing weapons and fire everything at her until it sticks.

Cas reads that on him, too.

"Everyone shut your eyes," Cas says, his own starting to glow bright hot blue.

Chuck doesn't see anything else because Sam's turning them away, wrapped around Chuck's head.

But he hears every movement of it on a level nobody else does. Cas stops containing himself by slow degrees and then, all at once. Grace shining from him and flowing out. There's a sound like the raging freight train of a tornado and the fade of grace until it only hums elsewhere, muted. Entirely muted.

Chuck pushes Sam back to see.

Dean blinks, confused. Because he's totally aware. Totally himself. Cas wouldn't take over his senses. Despite the 'yes,' that's what Cas would find to be a violation of Dean.

Jimmy Novak's body is lifeless on the floor next to Persephone.

Claire opens her eyes to see.  
Then has to turn away.

"Cas says..." Dean starts and stops. Shakes himself. "Cas says check the body. He left it in..." Dean cocks his head like he's listening, "like a stasis. So it's in as good a condition as it can be in without him holding it together. You won't find a soul in there," he speaks like he's reading off a sheet of paper.

Persephone looks, with wonder, as much an expression as she's truly shown so far, between Dean and the empty vessel.

"I suppose you could take him out with you right now, if you wanted," she points out. "I'd be unable to reach him as he resides within you, with your permission."

"Then release my dad's body to me," Claire's eyes are glass and unseeing until she turns to Persephone again. "You know it's empty. I'm his daughter. I get to choose how to take care of his body."

"And I know how you'll do that," Persephone assures her, nodding to herself. "Alright."

"We're free to go?" Sam demands.

"You were always free to go. _Castiel_ is free to go with you," she's already pacing away from them, gathering up her skirts and crouching in the opposite corner. Cerberus' eyes -- only four of them, now -- blink awake and glow in the dark. It rises to follow her.

Persephone pauses before she leaves entirely.

Turns back to Sam.

"Have you no interest in seeing justice done? I must offer one last time."

"I'm good here," he pulls Chuck in.

Chuck indulges in a petty glare.

Her face goes blank and she simply blinks like when she'd vaporized the furniture, and he startles like the total chicken he is.

She smirks. And slinks out of the building and away, Cerberus by her side.

Everybody stares at Dean all at once.

He doesn't notice. He's completely absorbed. Cas might not be using his senses, but the flow of communication between himself and Dean would be completely uninterrupted.

Charlie is the first to approach him, then Sam starts closing in.

She waves a hand in front of Dean's face. He catches it up and stops her. "Gimme a minute."

"Dean," Sam presses in, puts a hand to his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Dean says, drawn out, still seeing things not in front of him.

"Cas can let you go now," Sam prompts.

"I can let Cas go now," Dean says. "Yeah. Hold on a sec."

They're all awkward and still until Dean hears something, his eye twitches, and he looks to Claire.

"Okay," he says out loud to nobody.

Dean stands there one more minute, listening.

Then he blinks down at Jimmy's body.

He moves, sightlessly, past Charlie and kneels beside the body and all at once, they're turning away from the blue glare of the grace leaving him again.


	3. songs of the doomed

Basically, they sleep for two days.

Well. They sleep for one full day, and then they go to dinner and an arcade with Claire and Charlie, and then Sam and Chuck return to their room to sleep for a second day. Chuck luxuriates in the feeling of being quiet and safe together. When Sam finally checks his voicemail, he frowns at Chuck from across the room and puts the phone down. Marches over and goes into full worship mode.

"So sorry," he takes Chuck's clothes off one kiss at a time and curls around him in bed, apologizing away.

"You're forgiven," Chuck waves it off, "but now you have to talk to me until I fall asleep. That's the price you pay for abandoning me."

"I didn't get to feed you. I made you panic. I couldn't even text you. I left you with Dean and a stranger. You had to clear a house with salt rounds. I'm so so sorry," he tightens his arms. "I'll make it up to you -- I'll pretend to be you on the phone whenever you don't wanna make a call."

"Oh my god. You swear?"

"Yes," Sam seals it with a kiss to the back of his ear.

This is a priceless treasure. He will never let it go.

It seems like each time he arrives back in the waking world, Sam is ready to turn him to his other side and settle the cooler portion of the sheets over him. Like he senses that Chuck is awake. Chuck starts to think maybe he does sense it.

One time, Chuck yawns and can't drop back off. Too much of a good thing. He's on his right side, huddled into Sam's front.

"You remember that one morning?" he asks, intentionally vague. He brings his fingers up to hush over Sam's shoulder, late morning light dotting through the blinds, yellow on his skin.

"Which?"

"You shared my pillow."

"Oh man." Sam's silent for so long that Chuck looks up to his face. "Um. Wh-why. What do you remember?"

"Trying to pretend I didn't notice you were staring at me."

"Oh. Anything else?"

Chuck cocks an eyebrow. "No. Why? I fell asleep."

Sam lets go and rolls to his back and stretches. "Don't worry about it."

Chuck is quiet, considering.

Still, Sam says nothing.  
And avoids Chuck's eyes.

"What happened? Did I fart in my sleep or something?"

Sam busts out laughing. "Uh, no. That would have been good, though. That would have been hilarious."

"Okay."

Sam sighs. "When I was pretty sure you were asleep that day. I um. Practiced telling you. That I," he waves, like, _you know_.

"Jesus," Chuck mutters. "Do you know how many times I thought we were just gonna start making out? Do you have any idea how much I was just, like, strung up with anticipation?"

"Unless you thought it was gonna happen after you spray-painted the sticker on that truck, I'm pretty sure it's a few times less than I wanted."

"So you were fucking holding out on me." Chuck shakes his head. "You owe me a bunch of declarations of love and a ton of makeouts."

Sam sighs heavy, like, _better get to work, I guess_ , and turns to crawl over Chuck. "I'll start with this one. We'll re-write it, okay?" He pushes the covers down and puts a hand to Chuck's hip, running his thumb just under his shirt. "That one when you put your hands on my ears."

"Oh, no, not that one," Chuck whispers. "You just got back and you're leaving again."

"Not this time. I have to say something."

"Sam..." Chuck raises his hands to Sam's ears.

"I think I'm in love with you."

"Holy shit," Chuck's insides swoop like it really is a do-over. "I think so, too. I mean. Oh my god, I missed you so much. I'm sorry," his eyes actually tear up, "I'm sorry I was drinking."

Sam settles on top of him. "No. Sshhh. It's okay. You're alright. I wasn't there for you. I was trying to. I donno," Sam looks lost. "I was trying to let you go. I thought you'd need time away after you found all that out and-"

"Stop. No. Get down here and fucking kiss me I missed you so ba-"

Sam's mouth is on him before he can finish.

He sinks on top of Chuck and they kiss, hot, almost frantic until Chuck drops back. He reaches between them, Sam shifting up to kneel out of the way. "I jerked off after you left. I was screaming for it, I wanted you inside me so bad. I was just. I was just gone. I was just. So fucking in love with you. I said it over and ov-"

Sam is on his mouth again, moves to straddle him, and he reaches down to help draw the both of them out of their shorts and into his hand, stroking them together, rolling his hips down onto Chuck. "Tell me what you said. You owe me a few of these, too. You've been doing this without me too much."

Chuck falls right into it. "Oh, fuck, I love you. I love you. I fucking love you. Want you to fuck me."

"Oh god."

"Love you. Sam. Sam Sam Sam. Oh fuck, Sam, I love you. Just fucking _do me_ , oh fuck, never leave me."

" _Never,_ " Sam swears, fierce.

"I want you. Please, _please fucking kiss me??_ "

Sam is there, instantly. Chuck clamps his head in his hands and silently demands he stay close. He loses his voice entirely, so Sam just stays on his mouth, working them together until Chuck comes, body shocking still and crying out into Sam's kiss.

Sam starts to let him go, but Chuck whimpers so he just keeps working himself, hard and fast, until he pushes up Chuck's shirt and comes hot on his belly.

It's a while before Chuck can put words to what he's reading on Sam's lips. _You're okay. I've got you, I love you, you're okay._

"Sam. Oh, Sam. Oh my god. You're in love with me."

"Have been. It's been like a fucking year. You made it so easy. So amazing. Can I have my ears back, sweetheart?"

Chuck carefully lets go his solid, two-handed grip. "Sorry-"

"You're fine. It's okay. I've got a pretty hard head," he smiles. "I need you to tell me how you feel. You look really shocked."

"I'm processing. I have no idea how I conned you into this."

Sam gives him a dubious look. "You're not masterminding me into anything. I got here before you did. I'm gonna carry you to the shower. Ready?"

"No. No no. I-"

"Chuck, we're kinda covered here," he gestures with a messy hand.

"I wanna go home."

Sam smiles wide again. Leans down to kiss him. "Me, too. I can't wait to be home with you. Do you want me to-"

"I wanna make out some more. I wanna make out without finding reasons. Just because we're here right now and we've only been doing this for two months, depending if you count six weeks of phone calls-"

"Which I do."

"- which, okay, fine, but I got through so many years without you and I don't care to do that anymore, it's bullshit. Whoever kept this from us is gonna get fucked up, I'm gonna choke somebody the fuck out."

"You threaten goddesses and existence itself for me. You realize I'm about to rub my come into your skin and forbid you from washing it off. It's about to get fucking primal in here."

"Sam. I'm gonna have to write about a hundred more novels. I need to etch you into history. People are gonna be like, Achilles who? Jesus what now? Abe Lincoln? How do you even spell that?"

Sam starts rubbing because he wasn't fucking kidding about that, though he's shaking his head, baffled. He skids his fingers over Chuck's soft cock, making him shiver, then moves to take off Chuck's shirt and boxers. "I will fucking pay you to let me wash you. I want to give you a bath but I'll settle for a shower."

"Oh, good, I need a new source of income, anyway."

Sam shakes his head again, though this time it's from reluctance. "You're gonna have to fall off the grid soon. It'll be fake cards like the rest of us. But at least then I can really say I take care of you."

"You fucking caveman. You amaze me. So sophisticated until mating season."

Sam strips the rest of his own clothes.

"You know what? You shouldn't call mating season unless you mean it. I might have to fuck you until you pass out."

"I just slept for, what? Fourteen hours? Bring it on."

Sam's phone starts ringing.

They stare at each other.

"Wow."

Sam rolls his eyes.

They wait for it to stop ringing.

"Message tone," Chuck says.

The message tone goes off after they count to four.

"By the way, did you tell him-"  
Sam covers Chuck's mouth with the (relatively) clean hand.

"I thought we're not supposed to talk about everybody else when we're naked."

Chuck nods.

Sam lifts his hand. Kisses Chuck instead. "Do you want to keep doing this or you want-- MOTHER. FUCKER." The phone rings again.

"I'll go take a shower," Chuck volunteers.

"Hell the fuck no, we were in the middle of something!"

"We're not four hours away yet, he can still come over here and start kicking the door," Chuck shrugs. They both know he will.

Sam drops his head and his hair is a curtain around their faces as the phone stops ringing.

"At least let me carry you."

"See, at first I thought you were gonna get annoyed with that really quick or you'd eventually dismiss it as some passing joke. So I'm glad you're actually on board with full-time service."

"Nobody else gives a shit how strong I am. It turns you on and I'm out to impress you, so," he just shrugs.

Chuck sweeps his hands over Sam's face and down his neck. "You don't have to impress me, Sammy," he whispers. "I already know. You're already the most impressive. So in love with you."

Sam moans and sinks to kiss him.

"'Kay, you can rinse me off, then you can get to the phone. That shower's too small, anyway. For. Sexual acrobatics or wet cuddling or whatever."

Sam presses their heads together and closes his eyes. "I really wanted to do more."

"What about home, though? What about what we can do at home in our own clean sheets and knowing we don't have to be anywhere and no one will come to find us and we'll be perfectly alone together." Sam drops his head to rest on Chuck's shoulder. He moves and parts Chuck's legs and gets snug between them. Chuck tightens his knees and puts his arms over Sam's shoulders. "Sam? Won't that be better? When we get there?"

"I know it will," he finally admits.

"The phone's gonna ring again. You really wanna pick me up all the time?"

In answer, Sam only wedges his arms beneath Chuck and lifts him. They secure around each other and Sam takes him to the shower.

«»

No one knocks on Dean and Cas's door. Everyone leaves them alone until Dean starts bugging the world by phone. They have a family meeting to discuss what looks like the last of the human traffickers turning up dead. Just two. Stragglers. And Dean and Cas are gonna hang out in town to make sure it's over, but Sam's pretty confident it is.

They order Chinese and Dean is positively giddy with having everyone in his room watching the second _Jurassic Park_ on cable. Dean and Cas sit next to each other and they look so peaceful it's surreal.

They all have breakfast together the next morning, before splitting up. A table for eight, seating six at the continental breakfast buffet in Charlie's hotel. The guys all sneak in because they're rebels and every other blurry-eyed businessperson who comes through for cold cereal knows they're fakers and is too gutless to do anything but grumble.

Charlie is taking Claire back to Jody's, so they're leaving soon.

Claire and Chuck talk about movies over their bagels until Charlie stands up and starts hugging Dean and Cas and Sam. "Well. Nice meeting you, dork," Claire says.

"It's Chuck. But, whatever."

"I gotta admit I'm wondering how that works," she points to Sam. "You're like a four and he's like an eleven."

"But he's like an eight without the hair, which puts him in range."

She rolls her eyes. "Uh-huh."

They all watch Charlie climb Cas's back and give him directions back to her room. Dean trails after.

"Thanks," Claire adds.

Chuck shrugs. "Thank _you_. For flying out. I didn't want to have to fight. Or run."

Sam is suddenly looming over him. He takes the other half of the bagel off Chuck's plate and straight up steals the coffee mug. "C'mon."

They walk Claire back to the room. Chuck doesn't want to be hugged so he waves at Charlie from afar and grabs the bagel and coffee back from Sam so his hands are full. Walks out to the Impala.

He isn't ready to watch the Winchester thing from that close. He doesn't fit into the hugging and goodbyes and shoulder slaps and fond weapons exchanges.

He tears up the last quarter of the bagel and tosses it to some birds. Polishes off the coffee and dumps the mug in a stray towel cart sat behind an employee entrance.

Cas comes out to join him and they lean against the passenger side.

"Two of them on the left and the two of us on the right, it might throw off the weight balance of the car," he babbles.

"I'm a lot heavier than I seem," Cas says.

"Well, I know you _can_ be."

Despite his clear intentions to avoid such a thing, Cas clamps a hand down on his shoulder. "Thank you. Very much, Chuck."

Chuck is so distracted by the sincerity of it that he doesn't realize what just happened until Cas's hand falls away.

He feels. Brighter. Just a little. More awake. Healthier.

He looks down at his hands.

"You can't...," he thinks he knows the answer to this, but he has to ask. "You can't make me not want it, can you?"

Cas squints to the birds eating the bagel. "That's just a part of you. I don't think it would be wise to start rearranging your very being like that."

"So I was pretty much constructed to be an alcoholic."

The shoe scuffing, shrugging, frowning, all of it learned behavior. Cas tries really hard to earn his spot next to Dean on this planet. "I could say something about bearing crosses."

The straight spine he's kept throughout this ordeal, standing up against a goddess for Sam, and ignoring his desire to escape the situation, to just run, screaming, or turn away from Dean and Charlie to the booze he knew was in Dean's fridge. Chuck has tried really hard to earn his spot next to Sam on this planet. Just over the past few days.

Like Cas can hear that he says, "You get used to it. You'll stop thinking so hard about keeping it together, after a while." He turns slightly. "Not the. Alcohol. You'll probably think about that often. But the rest. It'll help having Sam."

Yeah. Yeah. And all he's gotta do is somehow not run Sam off. Oh, sure. That's not hard at all. Sam is an eleven and he's a fucking four.

Castiel's shoulders slump. "I'm sorry. You think very loudly," he rolls his eyes heavenward. "I really think you should discuss this with-"

"No, yeah, I know. Sorry. I'll. Um. Try. To keep a lid on it."

Sam escapes the room next, but Claire follows him out and waves one more time to Cas. She pulls out her phone and waves that, too. Cas smiles and nods.

"He'll just be another minute," Sam says, approaching. "Charlie wants to hang out and get to know Jody and Alex. But she'll swing back around to the bunker after a few weeks."

"And you'll be at Chuck's?" Cas asks.

Sam settles to a lean snug up against Chuck's side. "That's the plan."

"I'll have to sell it as a well-deserved vacation," Cas says.

Sam laughs. "Yeah. Well. Sorry, buddy, but I hope he transfers some of his clinginess to you and eases up on the rest of us just a little. Been a long time coming."

"He'll shove us all around if he gets wind of this conversation," Cas says, and escapes into the shotgun seat, closing the door behind himself. Plausible deniability.

Sam and Chuck are quiet for a while.

"You're not a four," Sam says low.

"I'm not a number at all, thanks, I prefer letter grades."

"You're an A-plus-plus with extra credit."

"I never did the extra credit. I was a solid B student."

"Right. Because you get extra credit for sleeping with the teacher and I-"

"Somebody call Chris Hansen, I'm uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. Also the implication that _you_ could school _me_."

Sam's smile is bright and ridiculous. "A-plus," he insists, "plus-plus-plus. Scoot," he moves, tugging Chuck around, and opens the car door for him.

«»

Dean wanders over at some point to watch Sam and Chuck pack. Well. Chuck was struck by something so he's writing and Sam is packing and Dean is eating jelly beans and badgering him.

Dean pulls an angel blade out, hands it out, hilt-first.

"I've got the demon blade," Sam shrugs.

"This is for Chuck. We have four others in the car. He should carry this."

Chuck's not watching them or listening too closely. He's got his head in a scene he doesn't want to lose.

"You didn't tell him?"

"He told me," Chuck mutters.

"I told him," Sam says. "Fine. You really think so?"

"Yeah. So does Cas. He says it should be easier for Chuck to block all the bad angel tactics out of his head and just remember what Cas does."

Chuck pauses. Blinks. Hands still hovering over the next word. "That's true." Keeps typing.

He doesn't wait to watch Dean shrug at his brother like, _told ya_.

"Alright." Sam adds it to a bag.

"Lemme talk to you outside," Dean tugs on Sam's arm and turns, leading the way.

Sam throws up his hands. "What do you-"

"Just come outside for a second, let Chuck write."

"Wow, okay, since when do you-"

Dean simply walks out into the parking lot.

Chuck is able to finish the thought in his head and save it, spell check it. But he doesn't get any further before Sam busts back into the room, bothered and baffled and, "I'm so serious just shut the fuck up."

"I'm serious, too!"

"Shut up."

"C'mon, Sammy, please? He's really cool. I didn't even know. It was a pretty good hunt, all told, I mean we-"

"SHUT UP. Please go back and plague Cas now."

"But will you just ask him-"

Sam actually turns and starts shoving Dean back out the door. "BYE CHUCK SEE YA LATER!" Dean hollers from three doors down.

Chuck frowns and pushes his glasses up his head and starts shutting down the computer, unplugging everything.

When Sam shows back up he shuts the door firmly behind himself looking harassed.

"What is his deal, anyway?"

"I could write a ten-volume textbook on the answer to that," Sam slumps.

He comes to help Chuck pack the last of the stuff. And he keeps furtively eyeing Chuck like he's worried he'll ask what that was all about.

So Chuck lets it lie. He hates being anxious about stuff so he sure as shit won't do that to Sam.

But Sam doesn't stop. Not shrugging on his jackets or taking the stuff out to the car or double-checking the room for anything they left.

He asks, "You ready?" after his final sweep and Chuck shakes his head. Puts on a worried face.

"I'm missing something."

"Okay," Sam shuffles and lifts the sheets. "What are we looking for?"

It gives Chuck a moment to make sure his face doesn't crack.

He pretends to look through some of the dresser drawers. "Uh. My glasses."

He keeps pretending to look, until Sam inevitably pulls him round and plucks the frames off his head. "You mean these ones?" he smiles.

And as simple as that, the tension leaves him. Chuck lets himself be laughed at.

Sam sighs. Laughs a little more. Happy. Distracted.

That's all Chuck wanted.

Sam puts Chuck's glasses in his own pocket and drops to sit on the bed, pulling Chuck in by the hips.

When he gathers Chuck in and wraps around him, head crashed into his chest, he doesn't babble about how hilarious that was, though.

"Dean really likes that you let him off the leash going after Cerberus," he says, muffled.

Chuck pets his hair.

"He's really excited about having more people in the bunker. Eventually. He knows we're not going right now, at this moment."

Chuck lets him slowly get to the point.

"He says we've been together for almost a year so I'm supposed to propose to you."

"We haven't, though?"

"He doesn't believe me."

"What does he care?"

"He thinks you're cool now. He was like, 'You need to marry him so he won't run away when you finally drive him nuts.'"

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"So, basically, we made fun of him and Cas for a year so now he-"

"Yeah. Except he's serious. Because he's Dean."

Chuck sighs and Sam turns his head to listen to his lungs. "I love you," Chuck says. "I think you need a solid month away from him. Can we beat them to the bunker?"

"Yeah. They're staying in town, still. Just to make sure."

"So we hit Lebanon real quick and then go home, right?"

"I really wanna go home," Sam breathes.

"Where are you putting your money, anyway?"

Sam pulls back. "On what?"

"I think Cas has just never told Dean that he already tangled his grace up in him. So my money's on Dean botching a proposal and Cas raining on his parade, anyway, by telling him they're already 'married in the eyes of God,' or whatever."

Sam snorts. "Dammnit. That's not a fair bet, you've got extra insight and shit."

"We don't have to remind Charlie and Claire about that when we throw in for the pool."

"You know what it might be, though?" Sam looks off and squints. "I bet they get into an epic fight when Dean's being a dumbass and he comes crawling back begging and Cas can't break his _widdle hawt_ by telling him so he just says yes."

"Either way, Dean's gonna do something dumb and/or dorky."

Sam points. "That's where the smart money is."

"Sam?" he keeps petting his hair.

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

He kicks Sam's feet further apart and steps between his knees. Then does his best to kiss the life out of him. Gets Sam's hair all tangled in his fingers and doesn't relent until Sam's hands are kneading his ass.

When Sam is nice and dazed he says, low and secret, "Please take me home?"

"Absolutely."

«»

They listen to the radio to catch up on the games Chuck missed during the hunt until he turns it off.

"Please talk to me," he requests.

So Sam tells him about the hunt he referred to a few days ago, with Prometheus and Zeus and Athena. He catches him up on other hunts. Other lore and the things they've learned.

He knows how Bobby died. He knows they're still trying to find their footing in a world where this walking, talking dictionary of a man doesn't exist.

An idea starts coming together in Chuck's head. But he gets distracted from it because he could be using this drive time to search for a binding spell. He could be reading.

He doesn't want to read. He wants to scoot left in his seat and pick up Sam's hand and listen to him talk. So that's mostly what he does, looking at Sam in profile as Sam watches the road.

A couple times, Chuck thinks, _You're alive_ , and the words rise in his throat and choke him. Sam Winchester is alive. What a fucking beautiful world to live in.

"Seen anyplace you wanna stop for lunch?"

Please, it's not like Chuck's been paying attention. He shakes his head.

"Okay, well. I have to find out where to feed you."

"Where are we gonna stop for the night?"

"I don't know. Depends how bad the driving wipes me out."

"I could drive for a while."

Sam shrugs. "If you want to."

"You know what I think?"

Sam smirks, "What do you think?"

"I think when you and Cas got nabbed by Persephone, you were asking him to do the thing."

Sam goes blank-faced. "What thing?"

"The thing Cas did before you came out to the car today. The thing I'm pretty sure he did for you, too."

Sam doesn't say anything.

"I'm just saying. You know."

"I kinda-" Sam clears his throat because his voice came out strangled and high. "Um. I thought. I thought maybe we'd. Wait. Until. Um. Until we got home?"

"Oh. I guess."

Sam pulls off to a side road and he needs his other hand to signal and turn and whatnot. Chuck lets go.

"Or we could just park behind an empty farmhouse and I could climb in your lap and-"

"Holy shit."

"Sam?"

"Um. Yeah?" he keeps up the pretense of looking for someplace to eat.

"I was gonna wait, too. Maybe until we got to the next motel for the night. Or maybe until the bunker. Or until we got home. But I think. Really? I think you should just-"

"Could you not say it? I mean. Not right at this moment? Because we need lunch. And then," he sputters, pauses. "I um. Okay. It was actually kind of important to me. To wait. I mean, especially after all that we just went through. And. I um. Hold on."

He pulls up to a barbeque joint and parks the car. Takes a deep breath, turns the car off.

He turns to Chuck and takes his head in his hands. And the kiss that Chuck gives Sam is not the one that Sam is delivering to Chuck.

It's like they're suddenly reading different books and talking different subjects.

"Okay, that was weird," Chuck says when Sam pulls back.

"I'm kinda dead-serious about this. It's not helping that you're suddenly all horned up."

Chuck sits back in his seat, pulling away from Sam's hands.

"It's okay. I wasn't-- I was just. I donno. I thought it would be."

"Yeah. I know. Me, too," Sam says.

"But all of a sudden you're-"

"Yeah. I um. I might be. Um. I might be totally out of my mind."

"No. No, don't be dismissive of yourself. I'll control my shit. Feed me a big lunch and I'll pass out and sleep through the rest of the driving today and you won't even have to deal with me."

"It's not my intention to, like, shut you off, Chuck."

"Wow. Could you look at me, please?"

Sam screws up his face, huffs. Then opens his eyes again and turns in his seat.

"Hi," Chuck says.

"Hey," Sam says, "I just turned down sex."

"I noticed. You okay?"

"I get a little concerned that I'm not. Like. Answering your needs and stuff."

"Literally as long as you refrain from getting kidnapped and taken out of my presence again, you are answering my needy needs wherein I need you around just to function anymore. You really, really just wanna go home, huh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, pretty much."

"Okay. So here's what we're gonna do," Chuck unbuckles from his seat. "No more caffeine for me. I'll eat now and have a really great nap while you drive. Then I'll take over and you can nap after dinner. We can both drive. And we can just do the whole haul and get back home. We can shower and sleep and, then, when we're both completely rested and driving each other up the walls, we can expend all our energy on awesome sex."

"Awesome."

"Yep."

"Okay," Sam blows out a breath. "I'm not gonna drive you off outta my life if we don't happen to be thinking the same things at the same time."

"That's correct," Chuck confirms.

"Okay. I just want this. I just," he can't seem to find the words. "Perfect," he finally says. "I want this to be perfect. I want this to be so fucking good for you that. Ugh. This is fucked up. I want us to be so good you don't ever think about how it would be with anybody else. I mean. It feels like an uphill climb because, with anybody else, you wouldn't get dragged into monster hunts and you wouldn't have to be in the car for 30-hour stretches."

"Okay, um. Couple problems there?" Chuck says. "First of all, I'm not thinking about anybody else. I literally have no one else to consider. And no one else I want to consider. Second, that perfection you're referring to is _you_."

"No, see," Sam interrupts. "I take fucking issue with that because you're not a four."

"Are we still on the thing where the teenager gave us numbers? Dude, I said you'd be an eight without the hair. In what universe could that even happen? I'm new. She wanted to know why I was your dork. I still don't know why I'm your dork. We just. Make each other happy."

"So. You're happy? Even with what happened this week?"

"Sam. I am happy. I am. I'm pretty sure I could be happy if you dumped me tomorrow just because I know now that you're still alive and in the world and you have friends and people who love you. I'd be bummed for myself. But I could be happy knowing you-"

"I can't believe this is happening," Sam shakes his head and covers Chuck's mouth with his hand. "You fucking people. You and Dean, you have no basis for how high you hold me up. I don't even know where this comes from. Where are all my mistakes in your screwball manifestos about how I'm so spectacular? Do you just consciously decide to forget the things I've done that have screwed everybody over? Why do I get a free pass? I haven't earned it!"

Chuck pries his hand off. "You keep trying to earn it. You try so hard it's basically what you do for a living. Maybe we just admire that there's somebody out there who freely admits he's still learning and growing. Or maybe it's pure manipulation and we just praise you so you keep doing things to deserve it so we can stick around and just absorb you." He dutifully places Sam's hand back on his face.

Sam stares off for a minute. Then he replaces his hand with his mouth. Their tongues are back on the same page for these kisses.

"Actual, literal hero," Chuck says in the breath between. "My actual, literal fave."

Sam kisses him to shut him up again.

"Actual, literal significant other," Sam says, because that one's his favorite. "Let's make out for ten minutes before we have garlic bread. It's really good here."

"'Kay," Chuck shrugs. "Where do you want me?"

«»

Chuck ran out of coffee two hours ago. Every time he wants to wake Sam up, he decides to get through another five mile markers. Sam looks relaxed, if a little cramped, in the passenger seat.

He's seen this exact image hundreds of times with hundreds of flavors of love coloring it. Dean's or John's frustration, happiness, unconditional devotion, anger, loss of understanding, amusement, on and on.

He can't look away from the road that often. Not in the dark and not with his relatively poor driving record. But when he does look and a streetlamp sweeps orange or dull yellow over Sam, he wants five more miles. Five more and five more. He is so lucky to finally see this from just inches away. He feels his own love surge behind it and he never wants Sam to have to fight or worry again. He wants _this_. Though he knows the next time he sees Sam's intensity firing a gun or flipping a blade or demanding answers, he will want that, too. Want his goofy, half-flattened hair after a nap and the pathetic face he makes when he can't figure something out and it's bugging him. He wants Sam when shit goes bad and when nothing is happening at all.

He wants the savior and the food nag. One of the two deadliest hunters on earth. The guy who won't shut up about theoretical space travel.

He sets another limit for himself. Not miles, but a gas station stop. He really is losing his ability to split attention and Sam said to wake him up like an hour ago.

The shift in speed, slowing down and exiting, is enough to wake Sam, a veteran of the whole routine.

"Fucking called it. You don't play well with others."

"Well, yeah."

Sam waits until he pulls in and up to a gas pump before he stretches and cracks his neck and gets out. Chuck is still yawning and rubbing at his right eye when Sam opens the driver's side door and offers his hand.

He _offers his hand_ , to tug Chuck up and into his arms for a moment and then _escort_ him around to the other side and get him settled. "I love your dramatic, romantic fluff. It just comes at me right out of nowhere. It makes zero sense."

Sam even buckles him in and kisses him. "You know what came at me out of nowhere?"

"Like space junk barreling through a satellite. Everybody forgot I was there and _pow_."

"Yep. Lost all communication with the home planet. Nothing makes sense anymore. Now we're both space junk."

"Gravity," Chuck shrugs, tosses a hand.

"We'll latch on to a nearby comet and just fuck this old world."

"Who needs 'em?"

Sam stays crouched by the seat and reaches in for him again, kisses him again. "You're fucking exhausted. I'm not buying you coffee."

"You knew that was coming, huh?"

"Scoot, watch your elbow," he warns, standing and shutting the door carefully.

Sam gets the gas with his fake credit and he buys one of those bottled coffees inside the station so he can cap it and keep it on the seat with him, out of Chuck's reach.

Once he's back, he tries to make a pillow out of a hoodie for Chuck to sleep on against the door, but Chuck rebels once the car is started and scoots left. Claims Sam's hand once he's back on the straight of the highway.

"How far, still?" Chuck yawns.

"Couple hours to the bunker. Just two, actually, and maybe less."

"I'll hang out with you till we get there."

"You wanna sleep there?"

"Thought you wanted to drive straight through?"

"I want you to _sleep_. Now or there."

But Sam really wants to go home. Sam wants to go to _their_ home. "Okay."

Good as his word, he conks out.

«»

It's light by the time the car bumps up the road to Casa Winchester.

Sam doesn't say anything and Chuck stays where he is while he parks, gets out, and digs through the trunk.

Sam eventually opens his door, real quiet, like he thinks he might still be asleep.

He really must think that, because he carefully draws Chuck up with both hands and tries to arrange him, lying back on the seat so he isn't sprawled all over.

"Get your shit and come back," Chuck whines, worming away and trying to drop off again.

Sam laughs and stays for a minute. "I'm having second thoughts," his hand lingers, hot and huge and promising, at Chuck's thigh.

"No you're not," Chuck says, muffled, into the fabric Sam somehow still managed to wedge under his head.

"But what if. You know. Here?"

"You shoulda fed me coffee if you wanted to get laid here."

Sam shuts the door and heads into the bunker still laughing his ass off.

Chuck doesn't remember them taking off again.

«»

"Okay," Sam says. "I let you sleep through breakfast. No more."

Chuck blinks up at his surroundings and struggles up in the seat. They're almost back. "Tacos," he recommends.

"Like hell."

"Fuck you, hippie."

"Tacos it is."

«»

Home smells different. It took him up until now to grasp what Sam meant when he'd texted about the coffee and detergent. It smells like that and like... like a new pack of playing cards or a new comic. Like fresh ink on new paper. Or like the way a new gadget smells right out of the box.

Sam tosses the bags down on the floor and takes the bag of food out of Chuck's hands and drops it on the table. Crowds him against the kitchen counter and descends on his mouth.

Full-on. Hands on Chuck's hips and lifting his shirt up with his thumbs. Moaning.

Okay. So Sam really, _seriously_ wanted to come home.

He breaks away after a while. "I have to let you eat. We need to eat and sleep."

"You're taking the plan literally."

Sam nods, but his hands keep coming back to Chuck's belt loops. Fingers skimming.

"You wanna stick to the stupid plan, or?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it sounds perfect."

"With the eating and sleeping? That sounds better to you tha-"

"Yes."

He'd say 'okay' and go for the tacos but Sam is on his mouth again.

Sometimes Sam needs help restricting himself to the things he wants to do rather than, you know, doing ALL of them at once. Chuck has to gather up the scraps of their self-control and use it to push Sam back a little and slide away, back to the bag of food.

Sam has to stand there and breathe hard and push his hair behind his ears, looking for zen in the plants he got for Chuck's windowsill.

"This might work better if you weren't treating food and a nap like they were objectives you have to get through before a boss fight," Chuck notes, digging for the sour cream.

"I've been questioning the wisdom of this plan since I woke up. I like your plan from yesterday morning," Sam admits, turning.

"Should have thought of that yesterday morning. Now I'm putting this food in my face and I don't care if I did sleep six hours. I need more. I'm not used to hunting."

"But I'm awake. And you're awake."

Chuck takes his food over to the couch and comes back and stands in front of Sam. "Hi."

"Hi."

"Make up your mind."

Sam deflates.

"You made it, what, was that like 26 hours, all told?"

"Yeah," he reaches for his food and joins Chuck back on the couch.

They watch SportsCenter.

They toss their garbage.

They brush their teeth.

Then, on his way back to the bedroom, Sam stands in his way.

Chuck throws up his hands. "Okay. Fine."

Sam stalks forward and presses him against the open door. "You sure?"

Is he fucking sure? "Get the fuck down here."

Sam did a good job backing him up where he stands, because he doesn't slam back when Sam barrels into him, self-control out the window, kissing hard and already leaning down to grasp the backs of Chuck's thighs, push him up the door and grind into him right there, lifting him, holding him up.

Chuck helps, 'cause he doesn't wanna get dropped. But he mostly ends up with handfuls of Sam's shirt and Sam pulls him tight, turns them, and moves him to the far wall. When he's got Chuck propped back up, he doesn't break the kiss to flail a hand out and push the shower curtain back.

Yeah. Yes.

Chuck goes lax and Sam lets him go. He doesn't let go of Sam's shirt, though. He tugs it up, Sam gets it off.

He pulls back to breathe and to run his hands up Sam's body. Sam presses his mouth to Chuck's head and lets him for a while. Until he has to palm his neck and turn Chuck's face up.

"I'm so lucky I get to come home to you."

"Holy fuck. Please just do whatever you want to me. Like, _now_ ," Chuck nods.

So Sam gets him naked and helps him into the shower. Gets the warm water on and soaks with him for a while, just touching. They clean the travel out of their skin and warm the cramped ache out of their bones from all that time in the car.

Then Sam presses him to the wall and kisses his way down and crouches to eat Chuck out for a trembling, long time.

His shouts, his bursts of vowels, echo loud in the bathroom. Louder when Sam shuts off the water. Just the sound of dripping. Sam's breath at his ass, kissing his legs and up again. Chuck smacks his hand on the tile like tapping out because, fuck, if this goes on much longer-

Sam comes up and draws him back out of the shower.

The toweling off he gives them both is basically perfunctory. Brief. Only for the time it takes to walk Chuck out towards the bed. Sam kisses him, presses him to the sheets, falls on top of him and just lands where he lands.

When Sam finally has to pull back to breathe, his eyes are clamped shut and he's rolling his hips down on Chuck, where he laid him out.

"You want me to talk you through it?"

"Oh god," Sam shivers

Chuck reaches up to his neck and sweeps his thumbs up to Sam's jaw. "Hey."

Sam opens his eyes.

"Get the stuff."

Sam is clearly reluctant to go anywhere. Chuck scoots up and sits up. Tightens his knees against Sam's sides.

"Okay," Sam finally says. He handles Chuck again, moving him up the bed and not pulling away. Stretching, instead, to get to the drawer and come back with just the lube. He tosses it down beside them. "That's okay, right?"

"That was the point of the awkward conversation and you getting kidnapped, I think, yeah."

Sam sheds some of the tension he had built up, laughing. "We got nabbed by a full-on goddess just so I could fuck you without condoms."

"I knew it," Chuck smiles, shakes his head, "I fucking knew it."

Sam holds him close and kisses him down into the sheets again. "You have to laugh at me more often, you're so fucking beautiful."

"That's really weird of you to say."

Sam shrugs, pushing his fingers through Chuck's damp hair. "True, though," he blinks slow, still smiling. Says quiet and close, "Love you."

"That's awesome."

"'Kay. Tell me what _you_ want this time." Sam kneels on the bed, resituating them.

"Gimme this," Chuck reaches for Sam's right hand. Draws it down.

Sam touches. Fingers skimming, dipping low. Sure and steady on the inside of Chuck's thigh and down to his ass.

"You do want me to talk, right?" Chuck makes sure.

Sam _gulps_. And nods.

"Okay. So this is what you're gonna d-do," he stutters as Sam strokes him just loosely, a ghost of what his tongue had been doing. "You're gonna do whatever you want. So long as. You're inside me when you come. So long as. I get to feel it."

"What if I want you to come more than once?" Sam asks, quiet.

"I donno. I'll try. I can't keep up with you sometimes."

"I think you can."

"I think you're gonna make the attempt. And if it doesn't work, I want you to keep going."

Sam's breath goes ragged. "Fuck you to sleep."

"You've been thinking about that one for a while."

"I remember the way you said it. I wanna hear it again," he whispers, coloring it with how taboo the idea ordinarily is to him.

Chuck's hips surge into Sam's hand and he reaches for Sam's shoulders. Sam sinks on top of him, obligingly. "I want you to be the last thing I see. The last thing I feel before I pass out. I want you," he waits for Sam's eyes to open and meet his again. "I need you to come inside of me. To just fuck me until we can't anymore."

"Okay. Okay," Sam breathes. "I can't believe I get to come home to this."

Chuck smiles, just pleased. Pleased and genuine. "Move me where you need me to go," he instructs him.

So Sam rises and draws Chuck's limbs out. Kisses up the inside of his arm all the way to the shoulder. "Am I allowed to bite you?"

"I don't know. That sounds like it hurts."

"No, I'll do it without hurting you," he pulls his hands down Chuck's sides. "Of course. I won't ever hurt you. I just want a little more. Like the first time."

Like those marks Sam sucked at his collar the first time they kissed. The very first weekend Sam started holding and learning him. He understood, after, that Chuck felt weird about them, so he's held back. And now he's asking. And Chuck can nod, kiss him.

Sam rearranges the sheets and pillows and turns Chuck over, onto his stomach, like laying him down, curled in a nest. He presses one leg up and leans in and starts working him open more, with fingers and lube now.

He kisses down Chuck's back and at his sides, his teeth ease pressure into Chuck's skin. Firm, biting kisses that don't nip or hurt. Chuck closes his eyes and, for the first time, truly relaxes into Sam's touch. Sam knows what he's doing, now. His hands remember and they'll keep learning. He flows all around Chuck and the house is quiet and it's their own. This is chapter one of thirty-one. A month with Sam, longer than a hunt, longer than a novel. It feels so good to know this. He rests his head and blinks back over his shoulder.

"So open for me," Sam praises, when four fingers dip in already, his other hand a warm span at the base of Chuck's spine as he works.

"I need you to come up here for a second," Chuck says, voice thinner than he thought it would be.

Sam's front presses heat to his back and he kisses every step of the way up, Chuck's thigh, his ass, his hip, his back-back-back-shoulder. "What's up?" He shifts between Chuck's legs, hand keeping his place down there.

"Ready," Chuck says. "Wanted you to kiss me first."

"Okay," Sam draws his head up and obliges. Looks away and gets distracted with the lube for another moment. Then his whole body is over Chuck, pressing him into the cool sheets as he rocks himself inside. Groaning and breathing through his teeth. "Holy fuck. Oh, holy fuck."

"Yes," Chuck absolutely agrees.

He situates himself back there and then coaxes Chuck up, draws his hips up a little and Chuck leans, fucking himself back, the close, hot, grinding push into him. When Sam gets them pressed flush, Chuck leans up on one arm to reach for himself with his other hand but Sam curves over him, presses his arms back into the sheets, puts him where he wants him, and kisses his shoulder again. "I'll do it, it's my job right now."

Sam wraps his hand around Chuck's dick and strokes him in time with his own thrusts.

Chuck is just mouth open, silent, no words to shout into the sheets. It's so good, so good in him, Sam knows exactly where to move him, when to touch him and how.

Sam's voice is shaky when it finally floats over him. "I do want it," he gulps air, "by the way. I do want you to talk."

Chuck is still silenced by the feel of it but Sam changes rhythm and he gives a shuddering moan. He leans to his side and frees up one arm again to reach back, hand flailing for only a moment before Sam leans down and lets Chuck claw back at him, at his shoulder, and cry out for a few minutes.

It's slow and spectacular. Every roll of Sam's hips intentional. Just like the way he's never once mindlessly pecked Chuck on the cheek. He never takes these things for granted. He kisses and fucks serious, like it really is his job, his _duty_ , and each little contribution is as important as the first time they touched. Or the last time they ever will. His adjustments are small and wonderful and eventually he finds a way to draw Chuck's legs in a little and lay him down on his side so he doesn't have to hold him up, can use both hands on him. Stroke his cock, touch his body, lay his vital, incredible hands all over.

"I can't think of anything," Chuck finally says, just undulating with Sam's movements. "I can't think. I don't wanna think. I just want you. I just." He shakes his hand away from the death grip he had on Sam's shoulder, fingers digging in. "S-ssorry."

"Shh, no. You're fine. Whatever you need."

"You to kiss me?" his voice edges out, desperate.

"Yeah, yes," Sam handles his head around to kiss his mouth. "What else do you need?"

"Come in me."

"Not yet."

"It's different," the words shiver out of him.

"Yeah it is. It's so fucking good. You're so fucking tight around me and hot and just... shuddering. I can feel every little thing happen to you. Love you. Want you."

Chuck's response isn't in a language, exactly. But it is loud.

"You gonna come for me, yet?" Sam brings his mouth back around to breathe into it heavy and kiss.

"Maybe. Probably."

"What else do you need?" He moves Chuck's leg up just so and says, "Tell me."

 _I can't_ , he tries to say, shocks through him, sparking in him as Sam's cock hits just fucking right and instead Chuck only sobs and comes.

Sam's chest heaves against his back, faster now, because everything is different. Everything is way more fucking intense and maybe he talked a big game but Chuck can tell he can't keep going, not feeling how Chuck lost it, tensing around him and now going loose and still moaning in his arms. Every breathless twitch of his own body is answered by Sam, by whisper or erratic thrust.

But, "I can do this," he insists.

Chuck shudders, over-sensitized, as Sam's hands sweep his body and curve him into place, lying down next to him, now.

"Want you to relax," he says into Chuck's hair, and slows his movements. "I've got you. You're home. You don't have to do anything."

" _Fuck_."

"You okay?"

" _Please_."

Sam loses control over his voice at that. His breathing at that. Everything. He pumps fast into Chuck, keeps going, then there's the heat of him coming and the wet sound of it as Sam tries to slow down, still rolling. He gasps, once, loud, and then just secures Chuck against him, buzzing like electricity, but not moving otherwise. Not letting Chuck move.

Until he's suddenly desperate to pull away, to scoop Chuck up and lay him out on his back. Climb between his legs again and just kiss on Chuck everywhere, anywhere. He pets Chuck and calls him good and promises silly fucking things like never making him grocery shop alone again and a fancy one-button coffee machine and that he'll never ever make him order his own food or talk to strangers on the phone and a dozen other absurd, hermit-crabby things.

He wanders and presses and kisses all over Chuck and praises him and talks about never leaving him until Chuck laughs, gets all his feeling back in all his limbs and can draw Sam down with just light touches. Sam is so ready to shift into every movement of Chuck's hands, that's all it takes.

"You wanna sleep some, first?"

"Before we go for Starbucks and you buy me a new ugly hoodie and I never have to answer the front door on my own again? Yeah," he's still laughing. "We might need a little sleep before then."

"Okay. I'm allowed to do this," Sam says, like pointing out an interesting fact, before shifting Chuck around, lifting and moving him into the right place so they can curve tight together.

After they wake up, he's scrambling on to Sam's lap, ready again and begging to be filled, but shaky where he kneels, still worn out. Sam's hand scrabbling to find the lube once more, Chuck already lowering himself onto Sam's dick.

He has to get really, really exhausted. Has to ride until he's blubbering into Sam's neck and needs his body moved for him. Sam tightens his hold and shouts louder than he ever has, echoing off the walls of the bedroom, coming hard and trying to ride it out for Chuck. He only finally comes with Sam softening inside him, dropping back under him, laying on the sheets and jacking Chuck, breathing relief as he's spattered and Chuck climbs up to make out with him. He's unsteady and falling to the side, arms shaking trying to hold himself up. Sam laughs into the kiss and rolls him over and runs soothing, big hands over his body, trying to calm his muscles.

Later, Sam threatens to break the rule about food in the room, so he has to get dressed and get ferried back to the kitchen for dinner.

And after.

Chuck proposes they show that stupid table who's boss.

"That's. Um. Unhygienic," Sam says. But he's already shifting in his seat, clearly trying not to think about it.

"I have those bleach wipe thingies."

"I donno."

"I don't even know if I can come a third time. I think I'm gonna shrivel up and die."

"You're not. You're just gonna be a little wrung out."

"No. I probably can't do it," Chuck shrugs, slumps back in his seat.

"Oh my god," Sam turns his eyes up to the ceiling and shakes his head. "I'm gonna have to fuck you on the kitchen table just so you'll believe in yourself, aren't I?"

Well. Whatever works.

«»

Starting a few days in, Sam does break the rules to go exercise. He runs around the block and up to the supermarket and through the park and Chuck is awake by the time he gets back.

Chuck knew this was coming so it's fine but he's not about to pass up the opportunity to benefit from it. He's still lounging on his side blinking slow when Sam creeps back into the room.

"Since I'm clearly not enough exercise for you, you can take off that shirt and drop and give me twenty."

Sam smirks, cocky and pleased. Tosses his sweatshirt and under it he's shiny and wet. Curls of hair stick to the back of his neck and he's dripping to the waistband of his pants, breath still calming from the cool down.

He does hit the floor and do twenty push-ups. Ten with only his left hand, ten with only his right.

Chuck has nowhere for him to do a proper pull-up. That will have to wait.

Sam pops up and stretches some more and Chuck gets to watch. "Good enough, Drill Sergeant Shurley?"

"Good enough. You can fill up the tub now."

"Oh. Really?" Sam perks.

He shrugs with the shoulder he's not laying on. "You wanna?"

"Fuck yeah. Stay right there."

In the middle of their bath Sam kisses up his neck and right up to his ear. "Happy sober anniversary."

"That's today?"

"Yeah." He squeezes Chuck against himself. "You did really good."

"Except. I mean except for how I've fucked up."

"I told you we're not counting those. Not when you bought beer on accident. Not Bosco's. Not even September. You made the choice. You did the work. You're still doing the work. I'm so proud of you."

_Proud of you._  
_**Proud.** _

"I'm gonna need a minute. Literally no one has ever said that to me before."

"Okay. Well. I was proud of you for beheading the vamp. I was proud of you for nabbing Cerberus. I was proud of you for staying alive when Sandalphon had you. I was-"

"I said I needed a minute, not, 'Please overwhelm me, Sam'!"

"Okay okay." He tucks Chuck against himself and reaches out toward the knobs to add warm water again.

"What am I doing here?" Chuck looks around himself. "We're naked. You're gorgeous. This is surreal."

"Nope. This is actually reality," Sam assures him. Shuts the water back off and fidgets. "I managed to get you naked with me in a... really small tub."

"You're the one who's been asking. I warned you."

"I wanted to see what it was like. No one's ever taken a bath with me before."

"Maybe because bathing with you actually requires a swimming pool. Or a shark tank."

Sam shifts in the water. "Are you squished?"

"Not in a way I don't like. If you wanna get up, we can."

"I wanna tell you something."

Chuck waits.

"You put in work for us. And I don't feel like I have to put in that much work."

"You do. If you hadn't said, 'We can get you sober,' and then stayed with me for three days, I wouldn't have done the work. It's not _work_ listening to you, Sam. And helping you through whatever you're worrying about. It's not work. It's what I _want_ to be doing." He nods for emphasis and looks over his shoulder at Sam.

Sam hooks his chin there and their faces bump. Chuck kisses the side of his mouth.

"You do a lotta work," he adds, quiet. "You pick me up and you watch out for me and you're doing all the couple-y stuff. Making sure I know I'm supposed to hold your hand at the grocery store and bringing me to bed and showing me how to let someone in my space. And. Sexing me up. And, oh man. Sleeping with me. Taking care of me."

"You take care of me, too. You dropped everything to do it. Twice now. You saved me." Sam tightens around him. "Holy shit. You saved me," he says, hushed. "Holy shit. _That's what family's for._ You're my family."

They sit there and realize this for a long moment.

"Family," Sam says again, soft and worshipful. "I don't know if I'm gonna do this right."

"I think you're doing well so far."

"What about the curse?" He cringes. "Wait. You already said-"

"That it doesn't exist. It's just us versus the enemies. No curse. Just us batting our wings against the lid of the jar."

"Say 'us' again."

"Us," Chuck pronounces. "We. You and me. Our family."

"Your voice is seriously my fetish."

"My weird high pitch?"

"Whatever you think it is, you don't hear it right inside your own head. I don't know. It just sounds like sense to me. Like sense and peace and reason."

Chuck considers this for a while. "Thanks."

"Say more," he requests, and shifts back, pulling Chuck with him. "Oh, nevermind," he corrects himself. "It's sobriety day, you don't have to do anything. Do you wanna go someplace today?"

"Coffee."

"We can get coffee. You want one of those one-cup machines? It can be your anniversary gift."

"No, those things are monstrosities. You can get me a french press for my birthday, though, and teach me the ways of your people."

Sam laughs and the water sloshes with him. "My people?"

"Hipsters."

Sam pulls handfuls of water over Chuck.

He listens to his own echo as he hums.

"What's that?" Sam asks after a while.

Chuck shrugs and sings it and listens to himself. He's not normally a singing-in-the-shower type of guy. " _Way down among Brazilians coffee beans grow by the billions. So they've got to find those extra cups to fill. They've got an awful lotta coffee in Brazil._ "

" _Oh my god_ ," Sam says, hushed.

"Bad?"

"Wonderful. Keep going. Sing me the song of your people."

"My people?"

"Writers."

"The cross-species thing in your family is out of control."

"Our family. Keep singing."

«»

Chuck's mental landscape begins to change.

He didn't notice when it started, so he's not sure when he began leaving doors open.

But there they are. All over the place. Doors just wide open and light falling out of the hall and into the darkness of each room.

He doesn't feel like they can sneak up on him in the night anymore. Because Sam lives with him in the night. He's got his head under Sam's chin or his spine heated, being held close.

It changes a lot, knowing that someone who wouldn't let the archangels kill the world is next to you, on his back, snoring, arm under your neck, and you need to pull him to his side so he can worm a hand under your shirt and his sinuses will open and quiet him down.

So Chuck doesn't have to cower at the end of the halls of his mind anymore. Nothing's gonna pop out at him.

He thinks that, anyway.

He's submitting an unsolicited piece of writing when it happens. His throat closing up because nobody asked for this and nobody will read this and it's not any good and he doesn't know anyone at this company and he already knows what the rejection email will look like and-

he is choking on black smoke. Choking and tasting salt at the same time. Raw from screaming and trapped voiceless in his head. Like a demon jammed in but expelled at the same time. Two layers of memory: forced possession and an exorcism come too late to help.

He hears the car pull back up in front of the apartment. He simply abandons ship.

Doesn't even close his laptop, doesn't grab a glass of water, can't handle thinking about Sam finding him this way. Freaking out over nothing and possibly close to tears if he doesn't handle his fucking shit. Meanwhile, Sam got the groceries by himself and is coming in to unload them on his own. Doing all the work for them. For both of them. For their _family_. While Chuck chokes on sending a goddamn email.

Chuck can't even hold himself together to help with the bags. He can't step outside like this. Out into the light of day where his neighbors have never smelled the stink of the sulfur and don't know what it's like to-

though, technically, he doesn't know what it's like. Not him. He's had to see it (replay it replay it replay it) he hasn't had to go through it and SAM has. SAM is out there. SAM doesn't need this. SAM shouldn't have to deal with-

The bedroom door is shut behind him.  
The bathroom door is _locked_ behind him and he can roll knuckles over his throat in peace. He doesn't have to bother anybody. He can wrap his hands around his neck-

squeeze of a fist, Sam twisting a demon inside its vessel, focused, his mind like a knife into its very being, fueled by the blood of these things when he isn't busy boiling them to tar and-

everything is hot like the ground beneath him black and bubbling, descending to hell or dissolving into nothingness and sludge-

Finally has to let up the pressure on his throat because Sam's knocking at the door. It vibrates against his back.

How long has he been-

" _Chuck_ ," insistent, like he must have been trying for a while but Chuck couldn't hear it through the way the demon blacked his senses out. He's not allowed to act on his own, after all, _it_ makes the decisions, makes all the moves. So even if he wanted to say something, wanted to scream for-

"Help," Chuck says.

And is amazed it comes out at all, let alone in his own voice.

He tries it again. "Help?"

"Chuck?" Sam muffled by the door. "Did you say-"

"Help."

The door rattles again.

"Move away from the door," Sam says, and has the lock picked in twenty seconds of scraping and-

Chuck jolts as he's pushed, he falls to the side and sprawls on the tiles and his hands are on his neck again.

"What- Chuck what's...?" Sam squeezes in the door, flips on the light. Finds him on the ground. "What are you doing?" he stares down at him like he's completely fucking bonkers.

 _Get your shit together_ , he thinks at himself. _If ever you were fucking capable of getting your shit together and telling some bullshit joke about falling asleep anywhere-_

But his own hands won't leave him alone. Fingernails dug into the back of his neck, now.

Sam crouches, like he's found some sort of fascinating creature. His hand comes out and Chuck scrabbles away, kicking into the wall and shaking his head.

Sam looks totally baffled now. "Are you okay?"

Aaahahahaha. Wow! No.

Sam drops all the way to his knees now and comes to sit in front of Chuck until he's knocked his head into a metal fixture.

Sam stops.

He reaches for Chuck's arms and Chuck has to shudder out of the way. No idea what he's doing anymore.

For all he knows, something else has been living in him the whole time. For all he knows, he's never been who he thinks he is. Sam never did the tests, at least to his knowledge. He never even suspected something strange could be going on, just accepted the 'dead' guy back into his life.

He could be-

"Exorcizamus te," Sam starts, in a very clear and calm voice, watching him carefully, "omnis immundus spiritus," he licks his lips, goes on, "omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica."

And Chuck is surprised he doesn't twitch.

"Ergo draco maledicte, et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te," Sam continues, then, going through the whole thing, long form, every word of it, in an almost conversational tone. Otherwise, neither of them moving.

He gets past "audi nos" and they sit for another long moment. Before Sam reaches for him again and pulls his arms down. Pulls his hands away from his throat. His throat that didn't just expel black smoke at the holy words.

"Can you hear me?"

Chuck nods.

"I've been trying to read up on anxiety and stuff. And I mean. Stress disorders. And. I don't know exactly how this works in your head. But. How about this? When your first instinct is to hide from me, you're probably not okay, alright? That's probably the point where you need me."

"No," Chuck says, or tries to say, through a bruised throat.

"No?"

Chuck coughs.

Sam puts out his hands, palms up and open. Offers them and waits for Chuck to place his own there.

He shouldn't be doing this to Sam. He should be able to deal with this in his own head. And in the quiet and the dark. He did it for years.

"Chuck?" Sam leans forward and looks really sad, holds his hands closer. Won't grab Chuck again, but if he doesn't answer the gesture, Sam's only gonna get more worried.

He only came in here so that wouldn't happen.

Chuck gives Sam his hands.

"Okay?" Sam says and waits for the response that doesn't come.

He pulls Chuck to his feet. "Chuck?"

Chuck still can't-

Sam moves in and pulls Chuck toward the light around the sink. Looks at his neck.

He sighs what looks like massive disappointment and, well, there it is.

Chuck knows he's a huge disappointment. He was just waiting for Sam to catch on.

Sam curves a hand around the back of his neck and it's like taking a shower to wash mud off. Warm and huge and radiating into the ache, the dirt all falling and draining away.

"So. You officially hurt yourself and you don't fucking think you should ask for me when you need help. Still? You still think so? Chuck, you. Son of a bitch, man. You look like someone tried to choke you out. This is not okay. I'm not okay with this."

He moves around Chuck to push him gently by the shoulders, steer him out of the bathroom and toward the bed. A half-bottle of water from yesterday still sits there on the side table and he uncaps it and hands it over, pushing Chuck to sit on his side of the mattress.

"Drink what's left of that," he says, and sits next to him.

Chuck stares at it for a second. Then he does drink it.

"Okay. Say something, now."

"I thought I was. I think I thought that I was. That I had a demon. But not really. I was just. Feeling it again."

"You're gonna have to start from the top. I don't know how this works. I really, really need you to explain it to me because nobody on the internet covered 'how to help your partner through reliving demonic attacks.'"

Chuck picks at the label of the bottle.

"I don't know. I really don't know. I can't tell when it's gonna happen. I get reminded of stuff all day long. I feel things like they've happened before. It's like having memory loss because I can't remember if it was me or just something I watched, except it's more like memory _waterfall_. I donno. It's like it all comes back and I have to feel it all again."

"Memory waterfall," Sam hangs on to that and nods, like he needed that phrase to understand this completely. "I thought it was something like a demon. I mean. That you were _thinking_ it was something like a demon. Because I've seen people look that way before."

"Oh god." Chuck dumps his head in his hand. "You're a hunter. Oh, god. You knew exactly what you were looking at."

"Yeah. I'm kinda good at my job sometimes. So." He doesn't go on. Just takes the empty bottle out of Chuck's hand and then skids his fingers up his arm, to his shoulder, to his back, starts rubbing, hand spread wide.

And once he makes this physical connection, Chuck has no idea what the fuck he was doing not seeking it out. That should have been his first move.

He doesn't have to huddle on the floor and think about putting fork tines under his skin anymore. He has Sam living with him. And Sam is bigger than everybody. Sam is bigger than Satan. Certainly bigger than God because that dick never bothered to make an appearance.

"Is this okay?" Sam asks. "I probably shouldn't touch you without asking first but. I'm sorry. It's where I go. I try to-"

"Yeah. I know. You need to know somebody's alive. I know."

"Yep. You know a whole lot of stuff," he nods, sounds pissed. "So much that you get trapped under a fucking waterfall. So next time how about you tell me what's happening to you before you run out of air? Okay?"

"I'm supposed to just go crawling to you for everything? For the drinking and now for this? For every time I can't breathe?" Chuck whines.

"Yes. Yes, exactly," Sam says, terse, like he's fed the fuck up. "Yes you do. Come to me for everything under the fucking sun. Come to me when you read something cool and when you're fucking pissed off and when you want orgasms and when you can't keep your head on straight and when you're hungry and when you ate too much and when you feel like shit and when you feel fucking amazing because I thought we said we were gonna go through this together from now on. I thought that's what we said we were doing."

"Okay," Chuck says, like it's been beaten out of him.

"Oh my god!" Sam claws at the sky and then rubs his head. "No. Not okay. I'm dumping everything on you and I just let fly with every stupid thing in my head and you've got some kind of memory waterfall and a fucking word geyser and the Mississippi fucking River of wisdom in your head and I'm supposed to be the one sitting here with a can opener trying to pry you open! It's not fucking cool, Chuck! Do you fucking understand this?! You clamp up and you stop talking. You _set timers_ and decide not to 'overburden' me with your voice or some shit and we're somehow still supposed to be equals here? What the fuck?" he tosses the empty bottle out into the hall and scoots closer. He reaches over and pulls Chuck's legs over his lap and scoots him so he leans back, next to the window.

Sam strokes his thigh and it's soft, careful. In complete opposition to the storm on his face.

Chuck leans back and crosses his arms over himself. Droops against the cold wall.

Then shakes out of it and moves forward and pulls himself into Sam's lap entirely.

Sam wraps his arms around him.

"I fucked up again," Chuck drops his head to Sam's shoulder.

"You're not used to this. You're not used to not being alone and you're not used to having someone around who wants you to _remember_ that you're not alone." He tightens all around Chuck. "You're not alone. I'm sorry I'm pissed off. But I've been studying for this, Chuck. I've been reading and I've been learning you and when you still feel like you have to do this alone, it's like I just fucking failed the final."

"You've been reading?"

"I've been reading. I'm supposed to ask you if you want to be touched when you panic. I'm supposed to let you know that what you're feeling is valid. I'm... I haven't done this a lot yet. I'll get there. I'm working on it. I'm...," he hesitates. "I'm supposed to ask you if you wanna see a professional. A doctor. I don't know how you'd get around the prophet stuff and not get locked up, though. I'm not doing this right yet, either. I'm fucking up, too. So. I'll just. Try very hard to stop being pissed off. And I'll work on it with you. But _with you_ , Chuck. Not in a separate room from you, hiding so I don't _disturb_ you. You know what's disturbing? The thought that you think I can't help. If you can't see a professional because they'd lock you up for seeing shit, then I need you to at least talk to _me_ ," he practically pleads.

"I know you can help. I'm sorry. I didn't want you to _have to_ help."

"Why do I get off so easy?" Sam challenges.

Chuck sputters. "Becau- I mean-- you've already had a hard life."

"From what you've told me, you've had a hard life, too. Just in different ways. Okay? So I'm done with this bullshit. Even if you don't feel like we were on even footing before, we are now. No more acting like you can't say things. Say fucking everything. God." Sam shakes his head. "You're gonna laugh."

"About what?" he's actually completely puzzled by the sudden turn.

"This is hilarious. Ready?"

Chuck shrugs.

"I'm so in love with you right now. It's completely absurd. You're insisting on protecting me from the shit going on in _your_ mind. And all I can think is waking up in the car and opening the door and looking down and seeing the worst chop job I've ever seen on a vampire," he laughs, "and you in the driver's seat going, 'I fucking had to do it!' And just." He presses in and speaks against the skin of Chuck's neck. "I was so in love with you. Panicking and shaking and ganking a vampire with my gun and a completely inappropriate knife. I don't know where the fuck you came from. You fit perfectly. You're so short. You fit _perfectly_."

Chuck tugs his arms free and reaches up and turns Sam's head. "You have lost your goddamn mind."

"Miles back. Yonks ago. I hate to advocate this violence and insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."

Chuck presses his head against Sam's. "We have to make out now."

"'Bout that time, huh?" he descends on Chuck's mouth and doesn't let him breathe for a while, until he really needs to. Then he lays him back on the bed and goes in for more.

After a while he pulls back just enough to get Chuck's attention.

"What are you gonna do next time?"

"Tell you I need help."

"Just like? When?"

"Just like when there's booze involved."

Sam holds his face in both hands. Seems to search his eyes.

"I get it. I'm learning. Seriously," Chuck says, nods. "I'll tell you what it was about later."

"Okay," Sam nods, too. "I'm gonna need a tutorial or something. I need some information."

"I know. Information to research and pull apart and everything. I know. I should let you pick my brain so you know where I'm coming from. I just. You have to understand I'm a little scared of my brain."

"That really sucks," Sam kisses his face, "and I'm sorry. Stop carrying it alone. I'm not going anywhere."

Chuck considers him for a moment.

"I'm. not. going. anywhere. I live here now." He soothes his hands down Chuck's sides. "You're mine now. I take care of my stuff. I take care of my people. What kind of significant other would I be if I wasn't trying to make your life easier?"

"Okay. Alright, fine. I um. I have a headache now. And I need. Um. I need you to help me."

Sam smiles. "I can handle that. Bet your neck hurts, too?"

Chuck tries to clear his throat but it doesn't loosen anything up. "Yeah. Pretty bad."

"What made it happen? Is it still out there? Whatever triggered this?"

"I need you to bully me about my self-esteem or something. I'll deal with it later. We'll talk. I'll. I'll do my best to explain everything. How it works."

"Okay." So Sam creeps close and draws Chuck's arms up and kisses him. Chuck knows where this is going. He hangs on so Sam can lift him.

The rest of their time at home is better. Chuck already generally knows Sam's patterns. They'd been hanging out together for a few days at a time, before. So now Sam gets to do his own adjusting to Chuck being in his space. He does it with his hands, because he doesn't have to be looming and deadly and careful here. Chuck is fine with the space he takes up -- how huge Sam is -- and he doesn't want him to be cautious. So Sam can edge in close and touch. Move Chuck around. "Because I'm allowed," he'll say.

Chuck keeps writing and Sam goes through his pattern, reading the news, looking up whatever interests him, catching up on a few shows, leisure reading.

And, yeah. Studying up on anxiety disorders. He'll draw Chuck away from what he's doing to ask questions. He gets his answers a little at a time and every time Chuck is worried about dropping something too strange on him, he proves he can handle it. Better yet, he seems to believe Chuck when he says it's better with him around.

Chuck avoids confessing some of his way darker moments until after he has a bit of an episode - slips away behind a too-strong memory from when Sam first started hunting with Dean again. He's hidden behind himself enough that he's aware of what he's saying, but generally unaffected by it. Not feeling it.

That's not the same for Sam.

He looks wrecked, the next morning, when he reminds Chuck of all he'd said. "I feel like I tricked it out of you. But. I needed. God. I really needed to understand. And you weren't anywhere where you could keep yourself from telling me."

Sam looks so fucked up about it that Chuck decides to just not hold the explanations back anymore. It's shitty to keep things from Sam when he wants to take care of him so much, anyway. And maybe if he airs them out, Sam's reading will eventually lead him to ways to keep it from happening. Or draw Chuck back in faster after he gets lost behind an immovable chunk of prophecy and memory. That would be nice, really. To not lose time with Sam. To not wake up to Sam's disturbed worry after having witnessed that.

On regular days, good days, without the gloom of bad memories hovering over them, each time Chuck finishes something, he can circle the table or come around to the couch and him and Sam can get distracted for an hour, then go back to their stuff. Or decide to go do things together. Even if those things are just being pressed into a pile of limbs on the couch and talking about what they would otherwise have had to text about.

They're watching tv and Sam says, "I can start bending you over the furniture."

Chuck has a mouth full of cheese stick. "Uhm."

"No?"

Chuck clears his throat. "Um. Yeah. If you wanna."

There's not much to the apartment. Two main rooms and a kitchen and a bathroom. The entryway, the laundry nook. It's really just the couches and the kitchen counters that hold any real potential. Maybe the dresser, some of the chairs. But he doesn't wanna be boring.

Or.

He balls up his trash and tosses it on the table.

"You could _ravish_ me up against a wall," he shrugs. "Nobody's ever done that to me before."

"We could be adventurous and find a park or something. Even the car. You ever had sex in a car?"

Chuck frowns and reaches up to pet his head. "Sammy I'm afraid there's no faster route to a concussion for someone so tall."

Sam shrugs. "Point." He thinks. "Let's go to a movie."

"One we don't even care about? Want me to blow you in the back row?"

"Well, yeah."

Chuck isn't actually much for exhibitionism. He stays lazed across the couch.

"For real. There's gotta be some way I can blow your mind."

"We're having a lot of really excellent sex as it is. Are you bored?"

"No. It's just. You've been writing a lot. Working. And I wanna play with you," he adds in the sweetest voice, stretching across the couch and wedging into Chuck's space.

Chuck puts his arms around Sam's shoulders. "Let's do the wall thing."

"I don't know about the wall bruising your bony back, though."

"I think the bruising would be worth it. I think wall sex sounds really cool."

"You sure?" Sam starts skimming a hand up under his shirt.

Chuck scoots so he can kiss him and grind into his leg a little.

Or, you know, until he's fucking gasping.

Sam turns the tv off. "Say my name, I wanna hear you," his hand changes direction and yanks at the button of Chuck's jeans, dives in.

"Sam. Sam. Fuck me against the walloh god fuck. Yes. Yes. Sam, please. Please--"

"Gonna record this one day," Sam says against his mouth. "Gonna play it over and over like the sap I saved on my phone."

"Why bother? I'll spread my legs and talk for you any day."

"Will you? Spread wider."

Chuck does, and _moans_ for it, as Sam's hand delves lower.

Sam gasps at the sight of him that way and pulls back, pushes his hair out of his face, whips his shirt off.

That's quickly becoming Chuck's dinner bell. He loves that part. All solid block of Sam hidden under his shirt and then, bam, the sculpted cuts of his torso and chest, a little pale from the winter, but strong as ever. The flex under his touch as Sam stretches his body for him or moves to lift him.

Sam undoes his own fly but moves to take Chuck's clothes off first.

"Wall," Chuck requests again. "Please?"

Sam smiles. "Sure, sweetheart."

"Kiss me, too."

Sam does. "I should have brought lube out here by now," he comments.

Chuck isn't in charge of that part, Sam seems to have decided. So it's not his concern. He just rolls his hips and makes needy noises until Sam decides what to do.

He gets hauled into the bedroom and he's too impatient for the wall, so, fuck it. Sam drops him off on the bed, but when he comes back with lube, Chuck just tugs him down and between his legs and rides it out, not sure if he cares to wait. Sam is with him, arches above him like the entire sky and presses their hips together.

Chuck has to pause to gasp and Sam pushes him up, climbs to kneel on the bed. He finds the lube again and trails his hand down to Chuck's ass.

"Now you've got me thinking about how good it's gonna be. I'm on board with the wall thing."

Chuck swallows. "You're so fucking hot. Oh my god."

Sam leans over and kisses him again. "Be real good and hold your hips still for me."

Chuck whines but does as he's told, shuddering and clawing at Sam's arms. "Still not used to this. So fucking amazing. I'm totally ready, let's go."

"You're not at all ready. Gimme a few more minutes."

Chuck can't help all his movements and Sam smiles and kisses him when he has to pin his hips down with one huge hand.

Chuck's legs get situated over Sam's arms and he drives into Chuck, keeps going for a while, making him shout. Then he seats himself comfortably inside and moves to take Chuck with him to the bedroom wall.

Sam sets him against it and unsticks them from each other, letting Chuck's back fall flush to the wall.

Chuck clings to his shoulders and they try to prevent gravity from taking over.

For about three hilarious minutes.

Sam finally busts out laughing, drops his head against the wall. Chuck is exhausted but smiling and pushing at Sam's silly face.

"Okay, that didn't work, put me down."

"Nuh-uh," Sam shakes his head and fucks up into him so he gasps. Pulls Chuck close to him again and grips him to move.

He puts Chuck back on the bed. "Sorry, sweetheart," he says, still smiling.

"We tried," Chuck shrugs. "Can you come close and go really slow? I want that instead."

Sam pushes his legs back and scoots close. "Yeah. I can do that. Can you say some stuff for me?"

"I haven't been able to sing the praises of your arms," he twists his hands around them and grips. "They're my preferred method of transportation. Look at how pp-owerf--" Sam cuts him off, slow grinding and very pleased with himself.

"Yeah, okay," Chuck amends. "Your cock is actually my preferred ride." He needs a second to find oxygen as Sam pulls out completely, pushes back in slow. "You're so fucking thick. So fucking good," he manages, voice thin.

"Keep going? Slow?" Sam offers.

"Touch me," Chuck requests.

Sam does, frees up his hand and pumps Chuck slow.

"What else?" Sam asks

"Oh god. Say something sappy to me. Please. Romantic. God."

"You're so good for me, Chuck. You keep me close and learn with me. We're gonna get better at this every time. I can't believe I get to hold you. I can't believe you're alive. I can't believe you love me so much."

"Really fucking do," Chuck says, thin and strained.

"You should come for me now. You should feel so good. Want me to come in you or back off?"

Chuck holds him closer because he can't talk.

Sam leans up and pulls Chuck's legs tighter to him. "You're gonna be okay. Relax a little, I'm going crazy, I gotta speed up."

Chuck tries to channel his grip into his knees so Sam can drive through him easier and he stays close, watches Sam lose his grip which makes him lose his own and come hard.

"Let's go for groceries," Sam says, a while after, still panting.

"From hardcore pornography to domesticity in," Chuck snaps his fingers, "one second flat. You could propose a trip to the store when you're not still inside me, is all I'm saying."

Sam laughs. "Um, actually, I was like, 'we need lube in every room and I should probably be carrying some at all times.' So my intentions were far from pure."

"Oh," Chuck stops gripping his arms and drops back. "I was bullshitting about that anyway, you can do pretty much everything while you're still inside me."

"Good to know," Sam rolls his hips a few more times.

Chuck closes his eyes and just feels it. "Oh yes," he sighs. "I'm not ready to leave."

"Neither am I," Sam agrees, sweeping his hands over Chuck and settling down over him to kiss for a while.

«»

Chuck has a hockey game to watch and it's not being broadcast, so he has to go out into that loud, wild world.

He gets to bring Sam with, though.

Sam doesn't know either of the teams so he decides, based on Chuck's rundown in the car, who he's gonna root for as obnoxiously as possible.

"So I'm getting you a seat in a different section, then?" Chuck challenges

"Okay. I'll blend in. I'll only be as obnoxious as the other people around us."

No one is really wildly out of order on their side of the arena. Sam gets up to yell at the refs with everybody, though. That's always fun.

They share a fuckload of nachos and Sam makes him switch seats when the guy nearest to him comes back to their row with a beer and a hot dog.

"I'm kind of offended," Sam drapes an arm over the back of Chuck's seat, to his left now. He was using Sam's knee to write notes on and now he's back to struggling on his own.

"By hot dogs? I know how you feel."

"It's a first for me."

"Welcome to Chuck's brain. Welcome to bat country. Wait for the flashbacks to kick in. Then it gets really fun. Offsides," Chuck says before it's called on the ice.

Sam's phone rings. It's Dean.

All he has to do to get off the phone is mention that they're at a hockey game. Dean hangs up in total disgust.

"Baseball and football only," Chuck shakes his head. "Anything vaguely Canadian bugs him."

"It's not just Canadian," Sam rolls his eyes and puts his phone away.

"If you're truly in my headspace, you'll remember trying to convince him the same thing about Canadian bacon."

Sam throws his hands up. "It's just ham!!"

It's entertaining watching him boil over in indignation.

Sam's hungry again after the game and they go to a place where he can get a salad with fresh, homemade everything, right down to the croutons.

The food comes and the runner turns to take the tray away and someone pulls out one of the two spare chairs at their table and just fucking sits down--

None other than goddamn Crowley.

He's different. Bearded and looking a little tired and worn. He smiles at Sam. Says, "Moose. Got a stand-in for your usual squirrel, I see."

Sam's silverware clatters into the dish and he bolts upright, grabs Crowley by the arm and _yanks_ so unexpectedly that Crowley almost dumps off the chair.

"Hey!" he protests.

And Sam doesn't have to tell Chuck to stay put, just aims a halting hand at him as he hauls Crowley out of the dining room, beyond a wall, and probably outside.

Fuck. _Fuck._ What the fuck?

Chuck carefully puts down the knife he was gonna use to halve his sandwich and sits stunned for a minute.

Crowley wears an expensive and effective cologne that masks the normal demonic odor. It lingers there behind him.

Suddenly, all Chuck can see is his memory of what Crowley's face really looks like.

A shudder wracks him. He has to shake it off and think.

The waiter comes by to deliver Sam's iced tea refill. It's probably not really a good idea to stay here, even if the implication was that Sam would be right back. But. The food? He was kinda looking forward to it. If he were smart he would just bolt, but--

"Hey, um. Can I get the check? And some boxes? Family emergency," Chuck ad-libs.

The guy's quick about it. Works on getting everything boxed up for him while Chuck tries like four different times to figure out what the fuck to tip and if he actually has enough cash.

Sam's not gonna wanna hang out if someone found him here. And Chuck knows for a fact that Lilith told Crowley about her near-encounter with an archangel at Chuck's hands. Crowley may not recall right away, but he's a clever bastard. He'll connect the dots if Sam's behavior hasn't given it away already.

Chuck hands over the bill and the money and takes the bag of food, probably looking like a rude bastard, not returning anything the waiter says, digging for his cell phone.

He goes around to the entryway and looks around the wall, through the plate glass facing the front.

Sam has lead Crowley off across the parking lot, far away from their own car, to the opposite side of the building. Chuck has the spare key. He could go out a back exit or something and slip off and hide in the Porsche.

He circles to the back, where the bathrooms are. He stays there in the dark hall and calls Dean.

"What's up, upchuck?" He thinks that's real cute.

"I'm not sure how things are with him lately, so how concerned should I be that fucking _Crowley_ randomly popped in while we were at dinner and Sam dragged him out to the parking lot?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he sounds truly exasperated. "What does he want?"

"I donno. Sam just hauled him right out. I'm trying to decide if I should go out this emergency exit and get to the car."

"Yes. Wait- how close are they? Can you bolt without anybody noticing?"

"They're on the other side and the parking lot's pretty well lit, but the Porsche is by the back-"

"Yes. Yes you should. The alarms aren't loud on those things. Go now. Act natural. Tell me when you get to the car."

Chuck does. The alarm wails weakly behind him. The noise of it cuts out as soon as the door falls closed.

He looks around. The door to the kitchen is wide open, light falling into the dark corner near the dumpster, but no one's out there on a smoke break. He hustles to the car and unlocks the door. Gets in the driver's side. Tosses the bag into the passenger seat. Closes himself in.

"'Kay," he drops low in the seat. "Nobody saw me."

"Okay, I'm gonna hang up with you and call and interrupt Sam's convo with Crowley. You good?"

"Yeah, bye."

Then it's a waiting game. Chuck sinks further in the seat and watches the rear-view mirror. Keeps an eye on the blank screen of his cell phone.

Finally, he sees Sam approaching from the back of the building. Alone. He has his phone up to his ear.

Chuck carefully scoots the food to the floor and himself into the next seat. Sam uses his own key on the door.

Drops into the seat and shuts himself in.

"I think it's bullshit, though," he comments on the phone. Then, "yeah. I'm gonna drive us around for a while, make sure it doesn't look like he-- yeah. Yeah, okay. Sure. Later." He hangs up, cursing under his breath.

He pockets his cell phone before he turns to Chuck.

"Hey."

Chuck shrugs. "Hey."

"Good job sneaking out. Sorry about that."

"Everything okay? I mean. Besides the King of Hell dropping in?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "I'm so tired of that prick. He wanted us to look into something. Dean and Cas are gonna handle it. I could not give less of a fuck."

"We're gonna drive around?"

"Make sure no one's tailing us, yeah."

"Let's go to the top of the mall parking garage and eat our food."

Sam smiles. "Perfect. It's dark enough now. They won't be able to see you, I promise."

"I know. That also means you can kiss me and tell me you're okay, 'cause I really don't like that you had to talk to that skeeze."

Sam presses forward and palms the back of Chuck's head to kiss him. "I'm fine. Thank you."

"You're not a moose," Chuck insists, because that really annoys him.

"Thanks, but I don't know about that, hermit crab," Sam presses another kiss to his mouth before digging up the keys and starting the car.

«»

There's no disposable plastic cutlery in the to-go bag, so Sam tries to eat salad, awkwardly, with his fingers, until they find a stray pair of chopsticks bundled in with the spare napkins and Starbucks straws. Chuck's sandwich is less messy. They leave the radio on low and eventually Sam explains what Crowley wanted and they agree that neither of them care.

"Giant squid," Chuck finally decides, pointing a soggy fry at Sam.

"I. Wh. What?"

"You're a snuggly giant squid. Dangerous as shit and living under the radar and super smart. And wrapped around me all night. Giant squid, if anything."

Sam shakes dressing and almond slivers off his chopsticks. "Well. No one has ever called me that before."

"It makes us both sea creatures," Chuck points out.

Sam drops his box of salad into his lap and shakes his head. Chuck doesn't know he's smiling until he looks over and shakes his hair out of his eyes and yeah. He's gone utterly soppy over it. "When you get romantic it just comes completely out of nowhere. Fucking sea creatures," he shakes his head.

"Oh, I feel romantic as all hell. You with lettuce on your shirt. Me with ketchup on my hands. Sitting around at the mall making sure demons aren't following us. This is the kinda shit people write songs about," he continues picking through his fries.

"Wanna get a malted with two straws after this?" Sam jokes, "Will that improve the mood?"

"I think I wanna go back to our _warded_ apartment and hide. That's much more my style."

"Yes it is. And you can wash your hands and I can huddle with you on the couch all safe in my tentacles."

"See, it's suddenly going in a weird fanfic-y direction. I may have to redesignate your species. What do you know about blue whales?"

"They have the largest penises of any animal on earth."

Chuck considers this for a moment. Looks to Sam. Nods.

"Anyway," Sam smiles, "weird is what we do."

"True. You done picking at your food?"

Sam frowns.

"Steal a fork next time, you're a goddamn professional." Chuck closes his own box and dumps their trash in the bag it came from. "You know how this works," he waves at the steering wheel.

Sam waits for him to buckle in again and then draws him into a kiss. "Let's see how fast the car can go, then circle back home."

Chuck approves.

No one follows. Or, if they do, they don't keep up.

«»

Cas distracts Dean for a month. Dean still reports in to Sam and they talk on the phone but Dean talks with his hands a lot so he doesn't find it as fulfilling and gets impatient and hangs up.

Dean also can't sit in the bunker as long as he may think. He hunts with Cas a couple times but when the month is up he whines to Sam to come meet him in Texas.

"Ugh. Texas." Chuck's never had to hunt in Texas but he already feels like he's spent lifetimes there just from seeing it through Sam's and Dean's eyes.

He regrets his moaning, though. Sam slumps down on the couch next to him and stares through the television. "Does." He's silent again. Then, "Does that mean you won't come with?"

Chuck snorts. "Of course I'm coming with."

Sam slumps to the side and dumps his head in Chuck's lap.

"I can't believe we're going to double-date a hunt."

Chuck sinks his fingers into Sam's hair and gets to scritching.

"Oh, okay, nevermind. We're not moving from this couch, cancel that," he mumbles.

"We're not double-dating, it's family hunting."

"Dean said to bring you with. Either he's really okay with this or he's up to something."

"I think he's up to something."

"Maybe Cas will warn us before he pulls some shit."

Chuck frowns. "I honestly think you're forgetting Cas is the biggest troublemaker in the known universe."

«»

Cas _is_ the biggest troublemaker in the known universe.

Not at fault this time, though.

This is all Dean.

So. Spotty coverage in fuckass, nowhere Texas, and there's like two more miles of dust and nothing till he hits highway.

He uses his phone screen as a flashlight until what little battery is left runs out.

It's fine, though. It's fine. Putting his phone in his pocket frees up his hand and that's fine because something has been rustling behind him for the last ten minutes and he at least brought the angel blade.

His angel blade.  
It's his, now.

And he will consider it his as soon as he's done putting it through the witch's trained chupacabra.

That's what it's gotta be. That's the last text he got from Charlie before Dean drove out of his coverage area.

It waits on him.

Waits while Chuck stops, focuses. Closes his eyes and shivers, then pulls Sam's senses around him.

East. He can tell, now, that he's still headed in the correct direction.

He pulls Cas's senses up next. The flashing, lightning-quick memory of a fight between brothers. The way Cas handles the blade.

Deep breath.

This is fine.  
He can and will panic later.  
He will do it _later_.

He trudges through the brush.

His blade drops out of his sleeve just when he needs it.

«»

Sam finds him.

Sam is covered in blood, so he had to kill somebody. He had to fight his way into the witch's territory while Chuck was just left here to stumble across invisible borders in the dark.

Sam snaps him up from the side of the road, in the glare of the headlights, and clutches him so close and tight that Chuck's feet can't find the ground.

When Sam buckles him into the passenger seat, he knows it's finally okay to panic. And let's not take this lightly, by any means. Let's have a full-blown panic attack complete with dark visions of being dragged off in jaws and buried alive and baking in the desert for a week, dying of thirst, freezing at night, getting snake bit, spider bit, coyote-mauled, vultures feasting on his cloudy, dead eyes--

Sam has to remove him from the front seat entirely, haul him in back and huddle away with him. He has to teach him how to breathe basically from scratch.

It's snotty and teary and tight-chested misery.

Until practically sunrise.

The blood on Sam's clothes has gone black by then. He hasn't left Chuck for more than the three seconds it took to turn the car off and spare the battery.

Chuck's mouth is hanging open because he has to breathe the old-fashioned way, still. The Porsche interior is too dark to show the stains of blood transfer. He blinks slow against Sam's shoulder, learning to shift his own muscles again.

He hasn't kissed Sam since he saw him yesterday. He would do it now, but he still isn't sure how oxygen works.

Sam puts a wide hand to his chest. "In and out for me," he repeats for the 200th time. And, "Good job," when Chuck gets it right. "We need water. I need to get you back. I don't know if I can drive with you in my lap. I can try if you need me to."

That's a really absurd image. He wishes he knew how to laugh.

He shakes his head.

Sam gets him into the passenger seat again and gets to the other side fast.

He watches Sam drive. Can't watch the dead miles of passing scenery.

«»

Their room is four doors down from Dean and Cas.

Charlie is waiting, sitting on the ground, below the window.

She rises when the Porsche pulls up and Sam waves, tosses her the key. "Would you?"

"Is he okay?" she backs into the door.

"He'll be alright. You heard from Cas? Dean?"

Sam offers his hands for Chuck and pulls him out of the car. Chuck sees Charlie's eyes go wide at the question. She turns and scrambles for the lock.

Sam keeps a warm hand on his back, leading him into the room. He sits Chuck on the bed and gets a water out of the fridge for him.

He sits with him before he notes Charlie's silence.

She's shut them in and is stock still by the door.

"Charlie? Is Dean okay? Have you heard from him?"

Sam starts to go tense at her silence.

She puts her hands up, placating or calming or at least aiming for either of those. Licks her lips and approaches slowly. She pulls a kitchenette chair over in front of them.

"Okay. So, um. Dean's fine."

"Good." Sam's hand curves around Chuck's side so he doesn't start clawing or clenching his fist. "But...?" he leads.

"He went to a bar. And he's been back since about midnight. He's fine. Cas called me when he found out. That's why you went south, he searched east. Because. He knew, uh, approximately. Where um."

She looks to Chuck. He tries to shake his head subtly. _You don't have to do this._

But then she looks pissed.

"Because he knew where Dean left Chuck. He knew where Dean just dumped him and left. He decided it was an easy hunt and he went to a bar and Chuck didn't wanna go in. Dean acted like something was wrong with the car or whatever. When Chuck got out to check the tire. He just," she tosses her hands up. "He jetted off. Went to another bar. Told Cas he was just pranking Chuck into the family. He didn't know about the chupacabra."

The room goes silent as burned bones.

Sam pulls back. Stares at his knees. Then he pulls his jacket open and removes Chuck's blade. He'd taken it when it fell out of Chuck's grip at the side of the road.

Blue monster blood is dried under a crust of dirt and sand.

Chupacabra blood.

His jaw pops when it flexes.

"Holy shit," she says, taking in the sight of the blade, black and blue and silver and gritty.

Sam is starting to breathe hard.

There's a knock on the door.

Charlie rushes up for it.

It's Cas.  
"I think you guys should maybe peace out. You should get Dean and-"

Yeah. Chuck knows Dean's behind Cas before Cas does.

And it starts.

" _What the fuck_ is your fucking _damage?!_ " Sam stalks to the door and strains over Charlie as she holds him back. Beyond the door, Cas is trying desperately to shut Dean the fuck up.

The shouting is seriously intense. The last time Chuck saw them go after each other like this was right before Ruby conned Sam into letting Lucifer out, and NO.

Chuck can't deal with it. He scrambles to the end of the bed and trips to the other side of it. He sits on the floor on the far side and covers his ears but he isn't fooling himself, he can still hear it, Cas and Charlie lecturing over them, now, all four of them shouting, and so he just crawls to the bathroom and shuts himself in. At least when he covers his ears in here it makes a difference.

He stays. He keeps his mouth open and he breathes and he promises himself he's not having a heart attack. Hears the strains of his head starting to pound. Tries to listen to the seashell roar of his hands instead, because the high pitch of silence behind it is like a light burst forth from blood, from a broken chest, from a cage-- If he were having a heart attack, Cas is outside yelling too loud to hear and get to him and heal him in time and maybe he'll find out sooner rather than later if he gets to spend eternity in a hateful, Sam-less silence or if he's just going to hell, because if Sam were his soulmate he would-

He jumps at the feeling of hands touching his arms.

Opens his eyes to see Sam pull back and put his hands up. "Sorry, sorry," Chuck can almost hear over the muffle.

His heart is racing.

Sam tries again. This time he puts his hands over Chuck's and even more sound goes away. Clamped silence. Only internal noises. Only the body working to stay alive.

Sam moves his chest, exaggerated. Chuck realizes he's breathing for him. Big, deep breaths.

Chuck watches. Times his own to them.

Okay. A few more minutes. Okay.

He loosens his hands and Sam backs off.

He sits on his heels in front of Chuck. Dingy tiles. Green and faded decor. The same type of place where Winchesters always stitch themselves back together.

Chuck moves forward and Sam takes him.

"Okay," he says into Chuck's hair. "Okay. No more yelling. I promise. Promise promise promise."

Chuck nods into his shoulder.

"I'm gonna go nuts if you don't say something soon. You've been completely wordless and I think I'm dying inside. Sweetheart, please."

His throat clicks when he swallows.

"Okay. Up. Come with. I promise it's quiet out there."

It really is. Not even Charlie stuck around. Sam sits him back on the bed and gets him more water.

"Thank you," Chuck manages after half a bottle.

"I can't _fucking believe_ -" Sam stops himself.

Sam looks down at his hands and makes them unclench.  
He does this for Chuck.

"Drink more, okay? Just some more."

Chuck polishes off the bottle and hands it over.

"Okay. Good job." He doesn't ask if he can pull Chuck in and rub his back. He just moves slowly, broadcasting his intent.

"I think you single-handedly ganked a chupacabra last night after being abandoned in the hills."

Chuck nods. "That's about the shape of things."

Sam pushes their heads together and Chuck has to wind his hands into the fabric of Sam's coat.

"You?" he finally asks.

"I uh," Sam clears his throat. "I might have made enemies out of whatever covens remain in the five surrounding counties. If any of them are still alive."

"They trained chupacabras to hunt for sport, I think I'm alright with being on their shit list."

"Well, you're a pretty tough cookie. I don't think they were counting on you when they planned that out."

"Do we have work left to do here?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. No. We're going home."

"We're going home, or we're _all_ going home?"

"We're gonna shower the sand out of your hair and then you're sleeping in the car while I drive until dark. We're going home. They're staying here to clean up Dean's fucking mess."

Chuck unwinds his hands and pats Sam's chest. "We should stay and make sure they're okay."

"I am _going to_ punch the fucking smirk off Dean's face if I see him within the next 24 hours. So, no. Overruled."

Chuck closes his eyes and sighs.

"I've got guts all over me and you don't," Sam points out.

That's because Cas was right. Chuck can find a headspace that's good for efficiency with the blade.

He can probably find one to aim a proper shot, too, if he sinks into Sam or Dean. He has all their years of experience behind his eyes. He can access it. But it's more human. It's not as organized. Cas has kill modes that shift cleaner than gears on an automatic. He hasn't seen one one-hundredth of what Cas knows or has experienced. His lifespan is too vast. But what he has seen is compartmentalized and walled in with determination.

What Chuck remembers of killing the monster last night was still his clumsy feet skidding across rocks, but he landed a solid blow down on its head, blade-first. The hilt stopping against its skull, the brains run through with pure angelic titanium. He'd nailed it into the ground and had to put all his weight into yanking his blade back out again.

"I hope he's fucking jealous. When he finds out how well you did. I hope he's fucking satisfied in his little kid bullshit."

"Yeah. I uh. He's a dick on this one," Chuck nods. "I watched that car fly down the road and I was just like. Motherfucker. Are we really doing this right now?"

Sam rubs his back some more. "Shower?"

"Yeah. You, too. I mean," he thinks. "Shit. Okay. I'm starting to agree with this plan. I think. Yeah. I think Dean's a real fucking prick sometimes. I. I can't even pretend to be the good guy on this one."

"Me neither. You've got a headache."

"I do?" he finally notices it didn't go away. "I really do."

"Okay," Sam holds out his hand. "Here's the plan. Shower. Get coffee and food in you. Drive. Get into Oklahoma if we can. Sleep at a motel. Then go home. And ignore Dean for another fucking month."

Part of that sounds like a good plan.

But part of it sounds like a bad idea. Part of it sounds like the reason this happened in the first place.

When Dean doesn't have his brother around to even him out, sometimes he starts doing seriously stupid shit.

But, again: Chuck can't find it in himself to be the good guy right now. Fuck that. Dean has given him a lot of crap. Like, maybe he deserves a certain amount for playing dead for five years, but some of this is definitely just that same proprietary Dean Winchester, stay-away-from-my-little-brother horse shit.

If he has to keep proving himself by being a brutal killer, or whatever? He's gonna start growing all new anxieties and nervous conditions until he's twitchy and drinking again.

He can't do it. He can't keep killing things. This isn't the part of the job he was built for. Watching Sam's back is one thing, but he isn't knocking on the doors of vamp nests and clean-sweeping them.

Fuck this.

He starts formulating a really terrifying conversation in his head. Made all the worse because he foresees Sam's reactions too clearly.

He lets Sam wash him. And when he's finally clean he drags him down for kisses and scraps the conversation. Starts from scratch.

By the time Sam has him sat down in a diner, inhaling coffee fumes like the Oracle of fucking Delphi, he's better ready for it. It's another issue, though. One he knows he'll be able to maneuver. At this point, he just can't promise himself he'll stay away from the fighting. If that's where Sam is, that's where he'll follow.

"I've been wanting to talk to you about something."

It's West Texas, so they're on opposite sides of the booth, too weary to fuck with social norms at the moment by leaning on one another until the food gets there.

Sam stretches his feet up into the booth next to Chuck and knocks the toe of his boot into him. "Okay. Something good or something ominous?"

"Something... that I want."

Sam nods.

"I um. So, I want you to keep hunting. Because it makes you, _you_. And I want you to keep hunting with your brother. Because you love your brother. Present circumstances aside," he adds when Sam gives him an entirely unamused look.

"Then I. Well. You're gonna have to think about what you want to do when Cas's patches don't work anymore. When you guys start aging too far for him to reverse stuff without making you. Something else. You know?"

Sam takes a long swig of his coffee. "That can happen?"

"Humans have limits. That can happen. I'm not saying you guys would turn into something that's not human. But some things are ingrained so much in a person that really adding and removing things makes them-- it rearranges them into something unstable. Like how Cas could clear us up, make us basically healthy, but he couldn't scrub... um. Everything out of your blood. From the start. And he couldn't make me an ex-alcoholic."

Sam considers this. "So. Eventually we're gonna have to stop hunting. But. Well, I mean. Bobby never stopped hunting."

"He kinda did. He had a house. He didn't go out every week. Only when he was really needed. He had a cover business. He was a home base for a lot of hunters. And you guys. And I just think that you'll probably be home base for the kids coming up." Chuck shrugs. "And hopefully you find a way to make that not so bad. I mean. Like be a _functional_ Bobby Singer."

"Bobby was functional."

Chuck shakes his head, "You know I'm not trying to pick on anybody here."

"So you want to have serious answers about the future."

"Not right now, no. I just want it simmering on your back-burner." He drinks the rest of his coffee and sets the mug at the end of the table for a refill. "There's something I want for you and for myself. It's my own mission. It's something I wanna be doing. And I want. I guess I want the go-ahead from you."

"This is so strange," Sam says. "What a foreign land. Grown-ups. Talking through their issues. Telling the people they love what they need," he bitterly pretends to marvel.

"You know, you'll probably be there the day that Cas kicks his ass and it'll feel so fucking good," Chuck points out. "It's coming around here pretty quick, I imagine."

"That'll be awesome," Sam agrees. He steals half the sugar packets real quick and stuffs them in his pocket. Drags out a sleeve of painkillers and pops one out, slides it across the table.

"Thanks."

"If the food would come faster, your headache would go faster."

"Your intuition about what's happening in my brain at any given time is-"

"Your hands. You scrub your hands over your wrists a lot when you get a headache. You're trying not to press on your head. Sometimes it doesn't work. You rub your eyes. Your shoulders come up." Sam shrugs. "You have a lotta tells."

"I have a gigantic crush on you. Could you tell that?"

"Not at the beginning, but I think I'm spotting it. What was the other thing you wanted?"

Chuck flattens out his napkin at all four corners and breathes. "I want to look for a binding spell. Or a binding sigil. Talisman. Anything. I have a clue what direction I might be looking in. There's some stuff I want to read about. And some things I think I can ask Cas. It'll take some research. And um. It's something I want for you. Because I'm pretty sure there's something out there that could make it so nobody breaks into your skin again. Nobody can climb in your head ever again. And I just. I know it seems like, you know? What supervillain would make that move all over again? That game's already been called. But if it would make you feel even ten percent more secure in yourself. If it would give you a little bit of your surety back? That's something that I want for you."

He finally looks up from the table and Sam is considering him. He lets it sit until the food finally comes and he eats fries and watches his coffee get refilled.

"There's um. There's a possibility that we could just bind you. I donno. To your brother. But it's less likely we can bind you by yourself. And. If there's a possibility that I could. That you could get bound to _me_. Or whoever else you wanted. Or needed. We could do that. And if you're okay with that idea. I wanted you to tell me I could look into it. Or if that creeps you out and you're completely uncomfortable with that, well, I need to know that, too."

Sam runs his fingers around the rim of his own coffee mug for a while, letting his sandwich sit.

Then he pushes his hair behind his ears and he digs in. So Chuck lets him think.

Sam tries to start answering before the bill comes. Then, again, before they leave the table. But he stops. And they go out to the car.

He doesn't start it. He holds his hand out across the center console.

Chuck takes it in both of his.

"I don't know if I could agree to a spell that heavy-duty," Sam finally admits. "I can't imagine that the work of the angels, of generations of planning and meddling, could be undone by a sigil or something."

"Okay," Chuck nods.

"But this. I know you consider this a part of your job. As my significant other," Sam squeezes his hand. "So, look into it if that's what you want. And we'll work through it. If it's possible. But I'm not changing for it. I'm not gonna be something else."

"I understand that. That's all I can," Chuck shrugs. "That's just all I can ask for. Thanks."

«»

When Chuck starts packing boxes like it's nothing, Sam gets incredibly fucking nervous.

He hovers.

He starts off trying not to make it obvious. Then it's curiosity. Then he just grabs Chuck by the hips and _moves him away_ , draws him towards the couch and gathers Chuck on his lap.

"What are you doing," Sam says, and it's not a question.

"We said we'd do a month here and then a month at the bunker and decide which we liked better," Chuck leads, like Sam should get the message.

"Dean is a dick and I like it here. This is our place."

"Okay. If we don't end up working out all together in the bunker, then we get another place on our own," he digs a hair tie out of Sam's front shirt pocket and shifts to kneel, reaches around Sam's head to pull his hair back. "You need this a little shorter again," he comments, "it's bugging you."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks. But. _This_ is our place."

"Sam, aside from you being in it, this place is a dump. It's probably the best apartment I've had this whole time of bouncing around, but it's still dumpy," he finishes tying Sam's hair up and tucking strands in.

"The bunker's a hole in the ground," he pulls Chuck back into lap and holds him way close.

"But it's not a trash pile. And the rest of your books are there. And your brother's there."

Sam breathes through his nose. It's been a few weeks and he's stepped outside to yell at Dean on the phone. Then Dean started calling Chuck because Sam wouldn't answer.

"I think you don't really know how you feel about it," Chuck suggests. "I think you're angry and I think that'll pass. Imagine Dean's surprise when we just show up and move my stuff in. He'll be so happy about it that he'll almost be a pleasure to live with for the whole month." He rubs Sam's neck. "Just one month."

Sam looks at him oddly.

"Okay. Look. I don't like living with that many people. And I know Charlie has moved her stuff in. And that's-- I know, alright? And I know Dean has been a pain. But things move on and they'll get shaken up and align all over again. And just to make sure that it isn't what you _need_? I'm willing to try this. If it's what you need and it makes your family stronger and it makes you the least bit happier, I'm willing to do my best."

"I don't understand what you get out of it, Chuck. I don't wanna yank you out of your shell. Not when I've been just fine here."

"Yeah, but that's it: you've been _just fine_. You get tense when Cas calls. Like you think he's gonna tell you that Dean just skipped town to go do something stupid on his own. Even if you're angry, he's still ingrained in you. You're carrying this extra iron in your shoulders," Chuck kneads his hand in there for a moment. "See? It looks painful on you. And I don't wanna see you in pain. I don't wanna be in pain so I know I can't watch you be in pain. I mean. It could end up all sorts of ways. We could have a place, but you might need to spend a month in the bunker every so often. That would be okay. You have to stop framing things in traditional ways. There's no one, single way to go about this. It doesn't have to be that you live _here_ or you live _there_. I mean, I seem to recall several years where you never lived anywhere."

"Hermit crab," Sam whispers, exasperated, "I don't want you to have to do this."

"Okay, one, let's stop pretending I can't handle it," Chuck scoots his butt around and leans back and keeps his legs draped over Sam. "I've been through worse. I've lived in a fucking circus. Five people isn't a circus. And for the times when it is, there are rooms in that bunker that no one goes into for days, right?"

"Well. Maybe."

"So. I have a writing room or something."

"But I don't _want_ to banish you into the fucking dark!" Sam nearly barks.

This makes Chuck stop. When Sam reaches to draw him in against him, again, he doesn't fight him.

"Fuck. I just yelled. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I know what you're doing," Sam says into his ear. "Thank you. You're doing good. You're being a good guy. _Thank you_. I love you. You don't have to do this, though. I like windows. And not living in the dark all the time just because our life _is the dark_ all the time."

"We said we'd try," Chuck points out again.

Sam presses his mouth to Chuck's head and breathes in his hair for a few minutes. "I know we did."

"You guys are different when you're apart. And neither of you know if you're handling it right. Dean is," Chuck sighs. "Dean needs a little back. He can't handle this much upheaval at a time."

"I don't have to move back just because Dean hates change."

"No, you don't."

Sam doesn't say anything.

"He really misses you. You miss him."

"We'll get used to it."

"You guys keep the world glued together."

"We're still doing that."

Chuck is quiet before he says aloud what they both know: "You want a big family. You've always wanted to live in a big family. Maybe you never wanted kids and grandkids but you always thought you'd have neighbors and in-laws eventually and Dean's family, when he had one, a-"

"I know."

"Five people isn't a circus. There were already five people in my family when I came into it. I did just fine dealing with it when more just _kept coming_."

"And now you want the quiet."

"I like the quiet. I do. It can still be quiet."

"In the bunker. In the dark."

"In the motel rooms when we travel. When it's just us. And we can take time out from the bunker. That's what I'm saying, Sam. It doesn't have to be one or the other." He pulls back a little. "We'll try. Maybe Dean and Cas will want it back to themselves and they'll kick us out. Who knows? Maybe it won't work. Maybe we'll end up someplace we never even suspected."

"What, like Guam?"

"Jamaica."

"Argentina."

"Qatar."

"Estonia."

"Arizona."

"How dare you," Sam feigns complete disgust with him.

Chuck sits and touches for a while. "If you don't wanna do it, that's fine. I think if you don't give it a chance you'll be pissed and bored later. I think even if it's just something you wanna get out of the way. But I also think there's stuff we should work on while we're there."

"Like what?"

"I think you should decide what you want the future of hunting to be," he shrugs a shoulder. "I think pretty soon here we're gonna be letting Claire and Alex loose on the world. If they had you guys' knowledge, I think everybody would be more comfortable with the fact that it's definitely, _definitely_ gonna happen. They're not really giving you guys a choice."

"I don't wanna deal with Dean's face right now. You could have gotten really hurt."

"I know. And I don't want to get really hurt. And it was a dick move just hazing me out of nowhere. Like some sort of last-ditch effort to scare me off. But I told him to take Cerberus's head off. I told him how to do it and why. And if the little shit feels like testing me again, he can fucking bring it on. Or we can decide he really is just a toxic bastard and not worth our time. But Dean Winchester isn't just a bastard. He's smart and he's fast and he's deadly and all it takes to freak him out is happiness and feelings. So maybe we inundate him with good vibes until he gets used to it and he's less of a prick. I donno. Maybe we just try it for a month and run screaming."

Sam's quiet. Finally admits: "I do miss him. I do feel like shit when I can't watch his back."

Chuck shrugs. "So maybe you have to get used to this, too: to the idea that Cas has been stepping up there for a while. You'll have to hunt with them and see that Cas has a handle on it. Even if their relationship is a back-and-forth drama thing, they're still a solid team in a battle. They have each other's backs. A fucking month, Sam. And maybe more if we don't snap. And then maybe we back off and get some space again. Or maybe we'll be too busy hunting to remember to annoy each other. I don't know. I do know that if you sit here forever, you might fall too far away from what makes you who you are. And you'll start to resent it."

He doesn't want to agree. But Chuck doesn't lie to him. Sam is pretty good about letting Chuck's words wash through him and pull new sand up to the shore. "I can't watch you pack boxes it makes me really-- it fucks me up. It fucks me way up."

"You can do the packing, then. I'm not about to _ask_ to do _work_."

"I will. I have to. I'm gonna put you in bed first and by the time you're finished napping I'll probably already be done," he kisses Chuck's head. "I knew what you were doing, kind of. But watching you pack boxes makes me want to punch the fucking world."

"I didn't think about that. Sorry."

"It's okay." He holds Chuck tighter. "Go to sleep."

"You forgot the part where you take me to the bedroom."

"Yeah, I lied, you're sleeping right here," he moves to lay back, settles Chuck into himself, between his legs. "I'll put you to bed in an hour."

"You just woke up one day and decided to find me, didn't you? You just up and tracked me down just because you needed someone who likes being picked up and tossed around and falling asleep on you."

"No." Sam shakes his head and secures an arm around him. "If I had known about this, I wouldn't ever have lost track of you in the first place."

«»

Sam has kind of a hard time saying goodbye to the apartment.

 _Their_ apartment, he specifies.

So they sleep on it for one more night and let the sun wake them in the morning.

Sam looks sad when Chuck wakes up. He says, "Please?" and so Chuck kisses him and reminds him of an important commitment.

"You were gonna hobble the kitchen table before we leave, remember?"

Sam clenches and shakes a fist. "For its crimes against you. I must have vengeance."

He keeps a decent serrated machete that'll have to do the job. They don't have a saw or anything.

He hacks away at one leg of it and does his best to make it look clean. He shaves just a little off another leg. Just enough for a good back-and-forth wobble. By the time he's done, a copy of the white pages would be too short, and the yellow pages too tall, to set the damn thing straight. You know, if people ever even kept phonebooks anymore.

They high-five and then Sam finds a pencil that rolled under the couch and tags the underside with their initials real wide.

He sets the table to rights and they laugh like teenage assholes at their petty destruction, taking turns rattling it.

Sam does a final sweep of everything, like he's leaving a motel room. Chuck lifts the couch cushions a final time and finds a bicentennial quarter. Nice.

"Got my coffee machine?"

"Yep."

"Got my baseball bat?"

"Yes."

"Got my glasses?"

Sam stops circling the room and hands them over.

"Are you gonna make out with me in the kitchen one more time?"

Sam backs him up into the counter and Chuck thinks he looks heated but the way he kisses is just quiet and calm and sweet. They end up wrapping around each other like figures in a painting.

"If this is seriously upsetting you, we don't have to do it," Chuck says, petting his hair. "You wouldn't make me do this and it feels like I'm pushing you into it and I kinda hate myself right now."

Sam takes a deep breath in, out. "I think you're really right about this. I don't have to be happy that it feels so necessary. If my family were less fucked up, we wouldn't feel like we have to do this."

"If your family were less fucked up, there might not be any room in it for me," Chuck counters. "And I needed somebody to come be my family," he whispers. "So, thanks."

Sam melts all over him, drawing him in and holding on.

"So, you got all your stuff?" Chuck asks into the fabric of his jacket.

"As soon as you're in the car, I'll have it all, yeah."

«»

The bunker garage is empty when Sam lifts the door. He parks to the left so the Impala has enough space to the right.

"Did you call Cas ahead of time?" Chuck asks.

"No. Did you tell Dean?"

Chuck shrugs. "No. Maybe they're just out."

"Okay. New plan. Let's get the shit inside and then unpack real quick and we can just walk around in our socks like we've been here the whole time. Dean falls for that kinda shit constantly."

That sounds fun.

Sam shuts the garage again, drives back around front, and they unload the boxes and park the car where it can't easily be seen. It's simpler to take the boxes down, from the entryway, than up, from the garage, anyway.

Chuck tosses the chuckable boxes over the railing and to the floor. Only one box of clothes bursts open on the concrete below.

Sam can carry more at one time than Chuck can. From the last move, Chuck's possessions increased by two boxes and that's mainly because of stuff Sam bought for him, but it's still not that many trips up and down the stairs.

Now, however, Sam's room is a little crowded.

"Well, I needed all this shit in the whole apartment, but maybe we don't need it for just the one room?" Chuck theorizes. 

Sam looks unhappy about it, but he agrees to cram a bunch of it into a spare closet.

They flip on the lights in Charlie's room. She doesn't seem to be around, either.

So they proceed with the plan.

Sam gets Chuck settled in the library with his laptop and a sandwich and tells him to act natural just in case Dean and Cas come in soon.

Then he goes to make his room look lived-in, and then he calls Cas.

He still doesn't call Dean directly.

"Oh my god," Sam says when he's off the phone. "They're like ten minutes away, we just made it. Perfect."

"How long have they been gone?"

"Like four hours. I didn't tell Cas anything. This is gonna trip Dean out so hard."

"Come here," Chuck stands up.

"I should get your robe."

"Yeah, but c'mere first," he motions for Sam to lean down, then messes up his hair. "I'm giving you bed head. The story is we just woke up from a long-ass nap and we're eating dinner and watching something. Go get my robe, I'm gonna download an episode and we'll just skip to the middle of it."

Sam, scrubs Chuck's hair up on just one side to make him look messy, too. "Download a movie, though, it's longer. I'll be right back."

He comes back and they get Chuck all lounging in his robe. They eat off the same plate and kick their feet up on the other chairs just in time for the door upstairs to creak open.

They turn up the volume, share a look, and silently agree to be completely stone-cold calm, no cracking smiles.

Then they pretend to be absorbed in the movie.

Dean comes in, rounding the corner, low to the floor, with his gun up.

Chuck feels like he should maybe have downloaded an episode of a sitcom, instead, because if a laugh track kicked up right when Dean dropped his gun, that would have been a hundred times more hilarious.

"What the fuck."

Cas comes in, cautiously, after him.

Sam yawns theatrically and crams some chips in his mouth.

Chuck leans on his hand and says, "Hey, guys," real vague, like he can't spare the attention.

Then they just ignore them.

"Wait. What the fuck?" Dean repeats.

Dean looks around.

"When. What. What the."

Cas helps by shrugging and starting to remove his coat. He turns to hang it up and then rolls up his sleeves, heading to the kitchen.

He floats off. Dean is baffled.

"When did you get here?" he finally demands.

"What are you bitching about?" Sam says, barely interested, and glances over as if he's only _just_ willing to split his attention at the moment.

"No," Dean says. "No, fuck this. Stop it," he holsters his gun and marches down to the bedrooms. He's back when Cas is just setting a cup of coffee on the table and joining them to watch the movie.

" _When did you fucking get here??_ " he practically screeches.

Cas hushes him and starts asking questions about the movie's plot.

"Fuck you guys!"

Cas is actually the first to crack when they hear Dean's door slam shut.

Dean can't get them to admit what the hell is going on for a few _hours_.

At which point Sam laughs so hard he actually crawls under the library table to lie down and just die from the hilarity.

«»

After that, Dean's too excited to hold a grudge.

And, seemingly, he's recruited into Sam's mission to keep Chuck fed. Because the only time when amazing shit isn't coming out of the kitchen is when Dean runs out of groceries.

In a couple weeks, Charlie comes home.

And it's time for a hunt.

Sam turns, locks the door when they start packing and backs Chuck up to the bed. Has him sit down.

He crawls between Chuck's legs which pretty much always makes him happy, even if Sam's just gonna turn and sit on the floor between his knees and read a book. This time he sits back on his feet and lifts Chuck's shirt to rub at his sides.

He clears his throat. "New rules for this hunt. Me n' Dean talked about it." Chuck doesn't know when that conversation happened, exactly. Probably at some point when he was outside in the shade of his tree, writing until the laptop battery crapped out.

"Oh. Okay. What's up?"

"I um. I don't mean this to insult you. At all. I mean. You've proven what you're capable of, okay? But my concern is," he pauses, considers. "I'm not worried that you can't hold your own. I'm starting to get worried you won't be able to keep your nightmares out of your own hands."

Chuck sighs because, "I don't even. I mean. I don't have nightmares that often. I mean. Not the ones I used to or the regular kind. A couple weeks ago? That was just a flukey thing. I'd been writing about-"

"No, I know," Sam watches his own thumbs skid over Chuck's sides. "I know. But you have my shit, _plus_ Dean's shit, _plus_ the collective hivemind angel shit, _PLUS_ your own shit. All crammed into your head. And no matter what you're capable of, I don't think you should be playing offense. Defense only. We should be the ones causing chaos. You're our logical center. You're gonna think for us. And it doesn't make you any less valuable or any less badass. You can put in the legwork and wear the suits if you want. But I can't come home to you at the end of the day knowing we're drenching you in another layer of... horror and blood and pain that you can't escape."

"This isn't real pain," he protests. "They're just memories-"

"Memories building together into towering neuroses. Yes, Chuck, actually, mental pain IS real pain. You know it is because you can tell I'm in pain when I'm just sad. You recognize it as pain in me, but not in yourself. And that makes you a fuckin' liar when you try to shovel that at me," he sounds a little fed up. "Okay, so, it's my job to know when you're in pain and to stop it from happening. You don't wanna have panic attacks and think about drinking the images away," he says, almost like he's confirming.

Chuck bites his lip and wavers. He'd been telling himself this before, but the idea of going out there and being useless is damn repulsive, really.

Fuck.

He nods.

"You're not going out for the big confrontations. You're not gonna wade into a fight if you can help it," Sam declares. "Everybody has your back. You don't draw your blade unless you have to."

"And this isn't a discussion, it's an ultimatum?" he asks just to clarify. "Because you already had this discussion with Dean and Cas and Charlie."

"No. Actually. This was me...," he tries to find the words, "telling Dean that nothing like Texas is gonna happen again."

Oh wow. Oh holy shit. "You didn't. When Dean said the Impala's hood fell closed on him--"

Sam doesn't cringe from it. He shifts back, grim.

Wow. Cas had fixed it, but Dean's face had been red and black, bruised and really fucked up.

"Chuck. Listen to me, please. Okay?" He collects Chuck's hands and gathers them to his chest. "He left you in the fucking wastelands of West Texas without knowing or caring that the hunt had gotten more serious. He'd been drinking all day. Because he drinks _all fucking day_. And he dumped. My fucking. Significant. Other. On the side of a dirt road. And he left you there to fend for yourself in the dark and the cold and in witch territory and who knows what else. So. You have to understand that, to a certain degree, I also have to protect you from _hunters_. Not just the hunts themselves."

Which is absolutely nothing he ever considered before and it falls on him like a crashing satellite.

Dean's distaste for him runs a little deeper than the fact that he's bogarting his brother: Chuck is, to Dean's mind, still a prophet. Still an Agent of Heaven. When he's slightly sloshed, he sees through Chuck's humanity to what he believes to be the blackened roots of _Otherness_.

When he's home and sober, he welcomes everyone. Takes care of them all.

But Cas isn't going to do for Dean what Sam did for Chuck.

Dean hasn't gotten better in the time that Chuck hasn't been able to see through his eyes. He's deteriorated. And they really have been doing all they can to hold him together. Cas probably can't have a conversation with him about cutting back the booze because he's gotten so bad that there's not much else left keeping his parts together.

"Holy fuck," Chuck breathes. "Uh. I'm suddenly wondering why you guys are still hunting at all. Because that is. I mean. Wow. I mean, okay? I can kind of understand why I might not rank as human to De-"

Sam shakes his head. "No. Hell fucking no. Fuck you, no, don't even go there. You're more human than we are. Fuck that: you've even died less than any of us have. The only reason-- Dean is. He's had the shit kicked out of him. And. And he thinks. Well, he's pretty sure he's turning into."

Sam simply doesn't say it. But the look in his eyes does:  
John.

This is awful. Fucking John Winchester.

This is so fucked up. Of all the destinies Dean chooses to collapse under the weight of, he chooses his father a-fucking-gain.

Chuck pushes at Sam, pulls his hands away. "Stop talking. We can discuss this in the car or the motel. Closer to the hunt. But I. I get the picture." He understands. He can't do this right now. Oh, god, he doesn't wanna think about this. Oh, god, _Dean_.

Sam and Dean didn't have a discussion. Sam drew lines around his limits and when Dean got flippant, told him why he didn't give a shit, he saw blood red. Felt compelled to protect Chuck. Decided right then and there that the hunting will no longer be led by himself and Dean.

The power needs to shift out of his big brother's hands. Change is a'comin.  
The old ways are over.

If they don't flush out John's ghost now, they may never get around to it.

So, Chuck sets that aside. He goes far away and tries to put it behind a door in his brain. He goes numb with Sam sitting in front of him and when he rattles out of it, he's lying with Sam on the bed, staring through him.

Until he sees him.

Sam lets him touch his chest, his neck. Just to be there.

And this is good. He needs three minutes of this. Of just them. Three minutes to be human and in love and blocking out the world. He presses Sam back and Sam hauls him in over himself.

"I'm so goddamn sorry," he says. "I can't fucking fathom why he's thinking that way about you."

"Not your fault. Obviously. It has nothing to do with you. It took him how long to get used to Cas? And he loves the hell out of him. Facts are, he might never like me."

"He does, though," Sam protests, "he does. But in hunting mode he just isn't who he is when he's here. He looks less and less like my brother when we hunt. It's totally infuriating."

"Okay. We'll have to brainstorm about this later. I think you need to turn up the heat on your backburner. But that's. That's later," he curves close. "Not right now."

"I love you. What the hell are we doing here?"

"Shh. Stop. Touching Chuck time, yaaay, time to shut up and touch Chuck," he says, thin and humorless. Needy and serious.

"Okay. Okay, yes," and the whole thing was making Sam really tense and stressed, because he absolutely deflates underneath Chuck as he lets his hands rub and skim and wander.

"You're so good, Sam. We'll figure it out. Our whole family. We'll work it out."

Sam clamps around him, hugging him close. "Can I tell you something?"

"Always."

"I don't know if I can stay here."

"That's okay. It hasn't been a month yet and now we have some things to fix. So we still need to give it some time. If you ever can't stand it, we close the door."

"Close the door."

"Yes. And we do this."

He pulls Chuck up and goes after his mouth like he's hungry for it, rolls Chuck to the side and beneath him. "I wanna do more," he pants into Chuck's mouth.

Chuck has discovered that he does this before hunts. Or when he's freaked out. He needs this and he runs hot and desperate with it, freaking out a little, looking for a place to anchor. Like he could sink himself into Chuck and find a home port.

It's pretty incredible, to be honest. He knows he shouldn't let it happen. He knows he shouldn't let Sam get dependent on them like this. He's pushed Sam away before, to his benefit. Making him handle the bad stuff first and then come back to him later, when it can be slower and softer and closer, almost restful.

But sometimes it happens when Chuck wants it just as much.

"Let me?" Sam asks into his skin, "Please?"

Chuck can only nod, open his pants with one hand, and then get the fuck out of the way.

Sam is back between his legs now, still in his jeans and grinding anyway, moaning into Chuck's mouth, no regard for their proximity to the other bedrooms.

So far, he's taken a weird stand on that, refusing to pipe down when they have sex. Possibly that's another of his caveman issues. No one has said anything about it yet. That can't last forever. He knows how mouthy Chuck is.

Sam's got a hand down his pants and Chuck likes that it's sudden and still-clothed and frantic, but he also really needs _everything_ right now.

He pushes his jeans down until Sam helps. But he has to breathlessly request, "Off," for Sam to really stop and yank the whole works away.

Chuck spreads wide so Sam gets the message and the bed rattles when he grabs for the drawer, almost flinging it to the floor in his haste to find some lube.

For some reason Chuck can't let go of the back of his neck this time. He's gonna have red marks striping the skin under his hair.

After a while he's pressing back on Sam's fingers and ready, Sam pushes in when he's only just taken himself out of his jeans, clothes still on, the texture of them foreign to Chuck in this strange moment.

Sam is slow in him. He wants Chuck to feel that he knows what he needed. He's a long draw pulling out and a quick pump back in.

He closes his eyes and concentrates on that. "At the motel. Want a room on the second floor. Facing the back," he says, shuddery voice.

"With the curtains open," Sam agrees. "In the sun." He's really missed it, just in the few weeks they've been underground. "Open your eyes, sweetheart?"

Sam's smile is lazy and close when he does. "Second floor," he promises. "Do something for me?"

And his cock makes Chuck gasp and moan loud, just a little change of angle.

Sam fucks him that way some more until he loses control of his volume. Then he resituates himself again and Chuck can hiccup breath. "Total caveman," he accuses.

Sam's kiss is smiling. He stops rocking his hips altogether and sits still for a second. The lack of movement makes Chuck tighten everywhere. He was going comfortably liquid but with Sam just _sitting in him_ , holy shit. His legs twitch. He whines, wordless.

Sam sweeps his shirt up and off him and leans down to kiss his ribs.

Chuck gasps. "Please move??"

Sam rocks slow again, but only just, small movements, and takes off his own shirt. "Need you to do something, for real," now he's the one gasping.

"'Kay," Chuck manages.

"You bite me, this time. Anywhere. And hard. I need it hard."

Chuck's not used to that except nipping at his earlobe because he thinks that's nice.

"How?" he boggles.

Sam draws him up close and fucks into him really good until he's clutching at Sam's back. His face pressed into his neck. So he figures, like, yeah, okay. And he kisses there first and bites there second. Gets interrupted by his own gasp. Then bites harder when Sam says, "Yes, yeah," and starts to lose it.

"Come now, Chuck, come for me. Real hard. I'm gonna come for you I need you with--" he stops on a shout. "Please one more please, fuck-"

Chuck is all tangled up in these pleas and instructions so he just bites Sam's shoulder this time and moans, losing grip when Sam comes in him.

Sam pulls out too soon and Chuck could fucking die, why would he--

But then Sam's sinking down, and sucking Chuck into his mouth, hand pumping the base and it's not three whole seconds before he loses it down Sam's throat.

Sam stays there laving him until he tries to worm away. He swallows and Chuck thinks this was maybe injudicious since they leave in like less than a half hour, now.

Oops.

"I just. That was a little disorganized. That was great. But I just couldn't decide what I wanted to do. So I did like half of all those things. I'm just gonna suck you off next time, I've missed it."

"I love these casual conversations you have out loud with yourself about how you're gonna reduce me to a pathetic mess in the future," Chuck slurs.

He watches Sam sweep his hand over and over his neck. Over the bites. "Nice."

"I did good?"

"You always do good," Sam crawls back on top of him. "We're gonna take our car. You need to sit here for a while longer. I'm gonna get you water and pack everything, okay?"

Chuck nods. "I can't find my purple hoodie."

Sam buttons himself back up and rises to snag his shirt, tug the covers over Chuck. Kisses him with care, hands spanning his head. "I'll find it. Rest. Don't do anything. I'll clean you up in a bit. I'll get you water. 'Kay?"

"Sammy."

"Yeah."

"Just checkin' you still love me."

"Love you like fucking mad." He presses another kiss to Chuck's face.

He closes the door when he goes and Chuck was really gonna help with the packing because he knows his shirts are everywhere right now. But he follows directions because he's learned they both feel even better after if he follows Sam's instructions. Sam is calmer and so Chuck can be calmer. And, really, that's what this was all about. Sam's stress starting to boil over. Stopping it dead and the both of them calming down, focusing, filtering unfamiliar things through each other and coming up with solutions. Teamwork. Or family. Or whatever they are.

Sam comes back to sit between his legs again and clean him up since he can't take him all the way to the showers. And that is. Wow. Heady. Intimate and scary in a way but close and important and Sam looks blissful. It's hard not to shake and moan again with him so close. One of Sam's kisses to the inside of his thigh packs more caring and adoration than he ever felt in his life before knowing him. Maybe it would have been smarter to work on Sam's concerns aloud rather than dissolving into sex, but then he wouldn't have had this moment and this is so strange and personal. He wants to push Sam's jeans down his hips again and settle back on his cock until he's sore

He does moan at the thought of that. He grips Sam's shoulder. Sam only smiles, finishes, and comes up to kiss him. Strokes his hip. Doesn't help him dress, yet, just tugs the sheets over him.

He makes Chuck drink and then he watches Sam steadily pack their next week up in some bags. He doesn't pack separate Sam bags and Chuck bags anymore, which really didn't occur to Chuck as an option, but when Sam does it, it makes sense. Shirts with shirts and pants with pants, both of theirs mixed up. They're not likely to mistake which item belongs to which person. Tangling everything including power cords up in each bag. A collective life instead of separate lives.

"Found it, by the way," he holds up the purple hoodie in victory and Chuck tries to imagine him on a gore-caked black throne in hell, wearing a crown of skulls and doing the same. It's hilarious.

He's gonna be in charge of making Sam happy for the rest of his life. This is so cool.

"Be right back, I'm gonna tell Dean you're debating whether to come with or not and tell him we're gonna follow in an hour. You need more time, I really jumped on you."

"I'm fine."

"Well, he doesn't have to know that. I need more touching-Chuck time," he zips up a bag.

This is _so cool_.

«»

The hunt isn't too bad.

Chuck finally puts his major to use by pretending to be a journalist with Charlie when they're interviewing people.

But he doesn't really get involved beyond gathering information and researching. He and Dean even spend a civil evening over a map of Chattanooga determining where the next hits will be.

Then he escapes back to his and Sam's room feeling like shit, anyway.

He hasn't had to text Sam in a long time, but he's still out stalking the streets with Cas.

**I'm afraid to look did the mini-fridge come w booze in it**

Sam calls him back. "What did Dean do?"

"He didn't do anything. I just don't wanna look."

"There's no booze in the fridge. What did he do?"

"He didn't do _anything_. I just. I can't stop thinking that sometimes he's looking at me thinking I'm. You know. A freeloading ex-spy or whatever."

Sam sighs heavy on the other end. "Cas is. Well. We've been talking about this in between everything. Cas has some ideas. Maybe a plan."

"I cannot emphasize how much better that makes me feel," Chuck breathes. "For real. Tell him the sneakier, the better."

"He really only has two modes: blunter than a bag of hammers and, oh, wow, how did my sword end up in your neck?"

"Yeah. You're right. I'm totally fine with either. Something's gotta change or something's gonna snap."

«»

So it doesn't go badly, but the hunt does stand as a reminder that Chuck isn't field-ready, even if he ends up spending most his time in the field in their motel room.

They divert to Clarksville on the way back, to an ex-hunter, ex-military man Sam knows he can trust.

They pull up in front of the building and Chuck reads "TATTOOS" and he knew this was coming but it's still totally nerve-wracking.

He's only ever watched other people get tattoos. He's never done this himself and he still really, _really_ , REALLY doesn't fucking want to.

They sit in the parking lot and Sam lets him sit alone and rub his temples for a while.

"I kinda wanna get it where I don't have to see it," he finally says into his palms.

"Okay," Sam taps on him, "Back of your shoulder?"

He takes a deep breath. "The other one, I think. I don't wanna do this."

Sam nods. "I know."

"It's non-negotiable, though."

"It's negotiable," Sam disagrees, "but no matter how I settle on this with you, it only means you'll have to do it later, or we'll end up having to leave you at the bunker sometimes, or-"

"UGGGH."

"You realize you're blowing the pain factor up in your mind, right? Cas can't heal it because then it won't take, but it's not gonna be that bad."

"I'm a huge wimp."

"You're really not. It's not that bad. I'll be there the whole time."

Chuck rubs his eyes.

"Back of your right shoulder."

"Yeah." He doesn't want it on the back of his left. Not behind his arm with his writing hand. It's a weird thing but it's just what he wants.

Sam is quiet.

"Kiss me and drag me out of the car," he finally grumps, fingers still pressed over his mouth.

Sam pulls Chuck's head out of his hands and does as he's told.

«»

Sam has nightmares, sometimes. They're as bad as Dean's.

And Chuck has had their nightmares on top of his own. So that sucks.

Sam was right: he doesn't need more blood and gore directly in his own hands. He's already got plenty of it mixed up in his brain. He seriously doesn't wake up that often, anymore, with horror clawing up the back of his throat. More often than anything, the visions revisit him during the day and make an already-intolerably crowded world even more intolerable.

Being held helps. Having Sam helps. Things are getting to be different.

But stress and pain and stuff can still trigger repeat performances in his brain.

It's the same with Sam.

On the few occasions Sam has woken up with a nightmare, Chuck wormed out of his arms, dragged himself up the bed and pulled Sam's head in, kissing and cradling and keeping him close until they were both settled back down and unconscious.

Five days after they get home, in the small hours of the morning, Sam's fist slams out across the sheets and into Chuck's back, knocking the wind out of him and jolting him awake, narrowly missing the healing tattoo.

Sam wakes up at the hit and the crash Chuck makes flailing into the side table.

And proceeds to spend the next week beating himself up about it.

Sam refuses to come back to bed. Chuck convinces him to stay in the room, at least. He piles sheets and blankets on the floor and sleeps there and doesn't come back to the mattress for days.

In the mornings, Chuck usually doesn't get up and around before Sam. But this whole thing is just.

Incredibly disturbing.

Sam's right there but he's not within range. Chuck's arm isn't long enough to reach down to where he is. The only time Sam's been touching him is to help him take care of the tattoo. And that's not his favorite part of the day, obviously, because when he lifts his shirt, he can see the big mark just to the left of it. So he only touches Chuck to get it over with.

Chuck blinks at the dark walls. It's long before he would normally care to be awake. The sheets are fucking cold. Being able to feel Sam in the air, hear him breathing from the floor -- it's not the same. It doesn't put him at ease. How the fuck long will this last?

Sam would never willingly strike Chuck. Never has before. Never has on accident or otherwise. And he only started having nightmares this bad since they came to the bunker.

What if it's the lack of windows? Or the ghosts of old Men of Letters? Or the stress of trying to figure out Dean's fucking problems?

What if he just forced Sam into this and he's losing grip on himself?

This has never happened in Chuck's memory. True, a lot has changed, but both Sam and Dean are always more functional, more sane and collected when they're close.

Their lives can't have changed so much that this isn't true anymore.

Fuck.  
It can't have, right?

It's nobody's fault. It's Sam's history creeping up the back of his brain and surprising him in the night.

And dragging him away and leaving Chuck alone. With a sore back from the bruise and the tattoo. He feels like he can't say anything when it feels funny or it itches because Sam will go all distant and sad.

Chuck climbs out of bed -- out of Sam's bed that he should be in -- and feels his way in the dark, toward the door.

He hadn't tried to convince Sam to come back to bed that first morning. He'd only _just_ convinced him not to head to another room the night after that. And the floor thing was the best compromise he could make. He'd tried to wake Sam up in the middle of the night and trick him into climbing up and coming with, but Sam had only told him to go back to sleep.

This really blows.

The clock in the kitchen says it's only a quarter to six in the morning. He wants more sleep.

But whatever this is that's going on is not sleep. It's not restful. It's not okay.

He makes coffee.

Somewhere in the bunker, Cas is awake, as he always is. Chuck's torn between hoping that Cas will wander in and talk to him and take his mind off things, and just escaping outside to sit by his tree and stare at nothing.

He'd try to puzzle this out. He's... trying, maybe. But. He isn't sleeping enough. He's tired and sore. He's growing lonely. This is bullshit.

Being in love with Sam. Being here with him. It's amazing. But love isn't a fucking cure to depression. It's great to work on them. Work on their life together. And look forward to staying close. And he can maybe grow around the aching old wounds. He can heal up and try to thrive. It's just that the hurt isn't gonna be erased. And when he allows this kind of rift to grow between them -- when _they_ do -- because this isn't Sam's fault alone, isn't Chuck's own negligence alone. When bad shit happens? It's gonna hurt. It's gonna hurt like before and leave him walloped and wondering if there's even a way to fix it. He'll wonder if there really are things that can't grow new skin and heal up.

And that doesn't just go for Chuck.  
Sam isn't in the best mental health, either. Sam's seen death and desperation and loss and utter, abject, all-consuming depression.

But Sam just left. To the floor. And Chuck's angry and sad. And he wants a solution _right now_. Wants answers that will only come with... shit. With enough sleep and consideration to puzzle them out.

Right now it's all fuckin' _questions_. What the hell even is this? It was one nightmare. One sudden movement he couldn't control. Does he really think that he can sleep on the floor forever? Or is this just the first tolerable step toward full separation?

Chuck lets himself indulge in that waking nightmare for a minute. The both of them going without sleep. Getting moodier. Unhappy. More distant. Until Sam just decides to fall asleep on the couch watching tv and Chuck goes to bed. And then suddenly that's what they're doing.

He plays scenarios out in his head. As always, the more torture it provides, the more easily his brain coughs it up.

Eventually he hears movement but he doesn't feel the low-level strain of Cas's grace.

That's one of the humans. He has just enough time to make it look like he was getting toast and not crying into his fucking coffee mug before he hears feet shuffling into the room.

Honestly, he kind of expects Charlie this early. She does the exercising thing, too.

But yeah. It's Sam.

He doesn't even put his hand to Chuck's back when he edges in to grab a mug. Chuck just shifts out of the way and runs his fingers under his eyes real quick. Tries to breathe quietly with blocked nostrils.

Chuck watches, out of the corner of his eye, the movements of Sam's hands.

Sam stops.  
Puts the clean mug directly back down where he grabbed it from.

His hands are careful turning Chuck, but not hesitant. His face falls at the same time the toast pops up.

So, yeah, Chuck just resumes crying and this time he cries harder.

"I just want you to be okay," he moans when Sam tugs him in and curves his big, careful hands around him. "I donno what to do for you, I just want you to be okay."

"I am okay," he says into Chuck's hair. "You're not okay, I _hit_ you."

"I'm not okay because I made you feel like a jerk 'cause I was just _there_ ," he sobs. "If I wasn't it wouldn't have happened and you'd know you're still okay. You're okay I just want you to be okay," he _clings_ and weeps and blubbers like a fucking asshole and no wonder Sam picked the floor, who would want to deal with this?

Sam takes the twist tie from the bread and the paper towel out of his hands and he yanks the plug for the toaster.

Then he marches Chuck directly back to their room.

He puts him to bed.  
And gets in behind him.

"Oh my god," Chuck gasps in relief. Closes his eyes. Burrows in. Reaches back until Sam pulls his arms around him and doesn't do it loosely. "Oh my god," he chants, sniffing the tears and snot back. "Oh my god, Sam. Please."

Sam presses kisses to the back of his neck, back of his head, and only moves to tug the covers up over them.

"You're only allowed to say it one more time," Chuck lays down the law through his last hiccups.

"I'm so. _f u c k i n g ._ sorry. I hit you," Sam swears into his skin.

"You didn't mean it. You didn't want to. It's okay. You're okay. I'm okay so you're okay. This is how I can make you okay."

"Yeah, all you have to do is try not to get caught crying in the kitchen. All you have to do is tell me I'd be better off if you just weren't there in the first place. What the hell do you even fucking mean? That made no sense," he asks desperately, squeezes around Chuck.

"Makes about as much fucking sense as you blaming y-yourself for having a fucking nightmare," he sniffs.

"I fucking hit you!! I fucking-"

"Shut the fuck up! Just shut up! I'm so fucking angry at you," he sobs.

"Oh god. Oh, god, just stop. I'm so fucking sorry," Sam pleads.

"Then stop saying that! Then just come back to bed!"

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Chuck sniffles. "Good. Then fucking stay where you belong, you fucking dingbat. No one said you could escape to the fucking floor when things get rough. Nobody said you could fucking abandon me."

Sam tosses his leg over Chuck's thigh. Snug to his ass and his back. Warm against the lingering aches at the center and shoulder.

Chuck shudders and presses back. They're wound up too close together. They shouldn't be able to sleep strung this tight and sad and angry. But Chuck is definitely about two seconds from passing out, already feels the snores in his clogged sinuses.

"Why was I that far from you, anyway? Why were you sleeping over there that night? Why weren't you here?" Sam is suddenly truly confused. "I can't even remember why you wouldn't have been closer?"

"T'ttoo," Chuck slurs.

"That's so fucking stupid. This is all too fucking moronic. You don't get your own side of the bed anymore. You'll report to the center of the fucking bed from now on and I'll decide where I fit around you."

"Calaforna kig," Chuck slurs.

"Yes. You're in charge of the mattress. You're the god of our bedroom. What a fool I was to defy you." And he truly sounds like he's having a religious experience. "We'll get a better mattress so I can fit wherever you need me. I'll go wherever you need me to go. Oh my god. Chuck. Oh my god. I haven't had this for six fucking days. Oh my god. Why the fuck was I sleeping on the floor?" he clamps Chuck to himself. "Oh god, I missed your body. Oh my god."

"Don do it again," Chuck blinks long and slow.

"No. Not ever, I promise. Tell me what to do."

"G'sleep."

"God, yes. I love you. Do you want me to wake you up for breakfast?"

"Ngh."

"I don't know if I can sleep, I have a lot of touching you to catch up on. Chuck? Okay. I'll shut up now." But his hands don't stop curving and keeping. Touching and holding.

The warmth of his front against Chuck's back helps the bruise to heal faster, anyway.

«»

Admittedly, Dean has more than a few reasons to be annoyed with Chuck which are actually 100% valid.

Dean's not _original_ by any means, so sometimes the things he says are quite predictable.

Chuck might mouth the words Dean says before he says them.  
Yeah, so, he can see why that would be annoying.

Sam maxes out the last of a limit on a fake credit card getting Chuck a new phone, "reporter" suits, and secretly pre-loading his Starbucks account.

That pisses Dean off.

The last one qualifies as "way romantic" to Sam which he might actually say out loud, within Dean's earshot, and that _really_ pisses him off -- that one's _not_ Chuck's fault.

Whenever Charlie has a different opinion on a case than Dean does, Chuck takes the lead in backing Charlie unless Dean has a really good basis for his argument.

Dean is only slightly annoyed on that one, but he'll be more annoyed when he realizes that Chuck is trying to shift the family business into Charlie's hands.

Chuck doesn't avoid doing dishes as much as Sam does, but he only really does them when someone else is in the kitchen because he has to be plagued with guilt to get started.

Sam puts the booze away so it's not sitting all over the house. When Sam finds some left out, he shuts it away in Dean's room. Dean can't keep beer in his own fridge anymore. If he wants cold beer, he has to keep it in a cooler in his room.

That all ticks him the fuck off.

Chuck tries to convince Sam that it's okay and he doesn't have to keep the house looking sober for him. Then he finds a 90-year-old bottle of brandy while exploring some of the archives and goes up to show Dean. He manages to get Dean to explain how it tastes, in graphic detail.

Sam walks in on that and.  
Yeah.

Maybe he doesn't wanna freak Sam out that much.

He probably shouldn't have been _sniffing_ the open bottle?

Dean is annoyed about the Porsche being under his roof. He hates Chuck's eurotrash.

Chuck agrees that it isn't quite ideal, gets similarly bad gas mileage compared to the Impala, and it looks weird, but Sam fits in it comfortably and it's still Chuck's first hunting prize.

Dean is cheesed off that Chuck and Cas have a secret project they work on in the archives. They move from room to room when they work together so Dean gripes that he can never find Cas. That Cas gets "stolen" from him.

When Claire comes to visit, she only hangs out with Cas. And that can't be helped. But during spring break she spends one entire day with Sam and Chuck. After they come home from a baseball game, Chuck elaborately braids her hair and she stops calling him "dork" and THAT'S what sets Dean's eyes to rolling.

Cas asks how that works, later, so he can replicate it for her and Chuck illustrates using Sam's hair, both of them standing behind the couch discussing different styles and techniques, which at least makes Dean laugh.

He's inclined to make fun of the three of them, but when Sam explains that Chuck has four sisters, Dean can't take pleasure in his annoyance or mocking anymore. He just goes quiet. Presumably goes to find Charlie.

She's the one who probably straightens him out.  
Dean cools it for a while.

Chuck was dealing with it just fine, really. He grew up the runt, the smallest boy in a house full of powerful, funny, loud, determined people - most of them women. He got kicked around at school for it and pretty well ignored at home for it. He knows the dynamics in a family where he's the puny one and Dean's behavior doesn't really surprise him. 

What's nice is to see Charlie's reasoning break through and quiet Dean down.

However. It's still not enough.

Sam and Chuck stick around. Long past the month mark. Sam seems to be growing back into it okay or Chuck would have offered to start looking for a place of their own.

But Sam seems to be alright. Chuck can take his writing outside on occasion and deal with the noise as long as Sam's okay. As long as they get to be quiet together in the night. As long as things don't fall apart.

Sam's keeping a close eye on Dean. Really, they all are.

And Chuck would like to know what Castiel's plan is, but hunts have been thin so Dean's been on pretty good behavior. Anyway, whenever he has access to Cas, he needs him to translate books, looking for binding stuff for Sam.

They're coasting along, really. The John within Dean doesn't seem to arise when he's around his family like this, so it's hard to explain it to Charlie. But she tries to give Dean the words he needs to hear. And for the rest of it, they push him into Cas's space and watch him mellow Dean out.

What's pretty plain is that simply going back to hunting is not the best idea for all of them.

Charlie seems to be picking up on that.

She is so, so blessedly smart.

Charlie emails him from her room. So he leaves Sam in the library to go knock.

"CreepyCon?" he asks when she opens the door.

"So, they're only in their third year, but they have real guests confirmed and booked and panels that actually look very exciting. Cons are blowing up all over the place, but this one is actually promising. They're looking for artists and authors of 'creepy stuff,'" she fingerquotes, "to sit on panels and have booths set up."

He narrows his eyes. "I don't write 'creepy stuff,'" he fingerquotes back at her, full-on denial.

"We both know you did and _that you still do_ ," she stage whispers, turning to sit back on her bed.

"I--" he blinks. "You're not looking at the stuff that's on my computer."

"I don't have to," she wiggles her fingers like a fake psychic in an infomercial.

"I'm not... putting any of it out," he shakes his head. "Especially not now that-"

"I know. But you're not a wanted man yet. Your name is still good for something. And I... also might know," she clicks around on her laptop, "that you don't have to pay rent, utilities, gas, and grocery bills since we pretty much take care of that here. So you're still writing articles and banking paychecks."

He steps into the room and closes the door behind himself. "There's a reason for that and it's not something I want to talk about."

She gets serious. "No. I know. That's between you and Sam."

"I'm not doing it so-"

"I _know_ ," she repeats, assuring him with one of those sage, all-knowing looks that women have always given him. And he feels slightly better. "You know what, though? They'll pay you to be on a panel. I mentioned it to someone and she remembers the books fondly. She was in the fandom for like five minutes a few years ago and she likes the stories. So it would be a weekend off for everybody and I'd get to see girls in hot cosplay and Cas has never been to a con and Dean has never been to one like this. So you could make a nice paycheck for sitting at a table for an hour and answering questions about your books. Only your one pen name is out there attached to a picture of you and it's just a single, grainy old jpeg of your face. So you might have to sign, like, _a_ book or two. I'm just saying," she puts up her hands, "think about it."

"CreepyCon," he says, slumping. "That sounds so. Fucking full of fanpeople."

"Yeah," she shrugs. "So much fake costume blood. So many goth girls," her focus drifts.

"Um. Can I. Can I think about it?"

"It's in less than three months. If we don't book rooms now, we probably won't find anything."

"Book the rooms and we can cancel if we want?"

"So you'll do the panel?"

Chuck hesitates. "I'm not saying yes, yet. I have to think. I've done this before. Kinda. And it um. Wasn't my favorite thing in the world."

"Yeah, I can tell," she squints at him.

"Fans are. Well. Supernatural fans are." Bonkers? Jerks? "Intense."

"Okay. Yeah, think about it. I'm gonna book us at the con hotel."

"I donno if that'll annoy me or Dean more."

"Probably you."

«»

Sam sits down behind him on the bed and brackets him in with his legs.

"You here to write with me?" he asks, finishing a sentence.

"Um. I don't think so?"

"Why not?"

"You're the writer. I just," Sam shrugs, "I just wanted to be here." He presses his head into the back of Chuck's neck. "I'm bored. And you're here. I just figured I'd hang onto you for a while."

Chuck straightens his glasses and types the last half paragraph so this article is pretty well finished. Saves it. Starts on the email.

Sam's hands creep around his center and he hooks his chin over Chuck's shoulder.

"Tell me a story," Chuck requests.

"I don't have stories. I think I told you about all the hunts. Maybe a couple I'm still not remembering, I guess."

"I've decided to stay," Chuck announces.

Sam tenses up. "Didn't know you were thinking about leaving."

"Things didn't work out between us. Me and Hipster Sam. But Law School Sam is moving out. I finally had it with his two-timing."

"So..." Sam considers. "You're back on the market."

"Capitalist Sam, nobody invited you."

There's a smile in Sam's voice. "I mean you're dating again."

"Maybe. I donno. I feel a little used. Maybe I need some time off."

"Maybe a vacation."

"Where should I go?"

"On... a..... cruise?"

"To the Bahamas?"

"Uh. Alaska."

Chuck considers this. "Why Alaska?"

"You won't have anything to do in the Bahamas. Tropical fish farts."

"Good point."

"All kinds of cool things in Alaska. Skiing. Kayaking. Mountain climbing."

"What about just seeing whales and shit? And glaciers. I can't imagine skiing will work out so great for me."

Sam gets excited. "Let's go- I mean you should go on the whale watching boat, yeah."

"Sure. And it's nothing like the big ship so I get completely seasick. Thanks for that. I'm all green and I'm not enjoying this at all."

"Bummer."

"This guy tells me it'll be easier if I look at the horizon. I think that's crap."

"Have you even tried?"

"Okay. Maybe it works a little."

Sam rubs Chuck's stomach. Laughs into his shoulder. "Sorry about your tummy."

"That's a really weird thing for a stranger to say."

"Well." Sam stops. "Yeah, sorry, I'm a school teacher, I phrase things in kiddie terms sometimes."

Chuck perks. "Well it was nice to meet you School Teacher Sam. Did you come to Alaska for geeky nature science stuff?"

"Totally. That's my jam."

"We should go look at glaciers maybe."

"Like a date?"

"If you want it to be a date."

"You sure? It's cold out there."

"Well, yeah. I guess it would be."

"You can come back to my cabin after. And warm up."

Chuck pushes his laptop away a little. Leans back into Sam's hold.

"Are we having a one night stand at sea over here?"

"It doesn't-" Sam stutters, "it um. Doesn't. You know. Have to be just the one night."

"I don't even know where you're from."

"Kansas."

"What a coincidence, I live there, too."

"So. Well maybe we can get together sometime. Back when. When we're back working and in the real world," he feels Sam shrug behind him.

"Oh my god, that's great. I love you tripping all over yourself like you really are asking me out. God, Sam."

"I'm really into you," and Chuck can't tell if he's still in character.

He turns to hook his arm around Sam's neck and kiss him. Sam's hands skid rough around him to pull him in tighter.

Sam gives him littler kisses at the end. "I love you. I love you."

"Sammy."

"I just gotta breathe you in."

"You're really, really good at playing with me. You're so good, Sam."

"I have to get it right. I have to be the version of Sam who finally snags you."

"So, maybe School Teacher Sam, sadly, lives in another city and it doesn't work out."

"And you have to travel for work. And you end up in this diner."

Chuck laughs and draws him into another kiss. "The rest is history, right?"

"I think I need to go shut the door," he takes Chuck's glasses off and folds them closed.

"I think you're fine where you are."

Sam speaks into his ear. "I think we should get naked."

"I think we should make out and go on a date."

"Oh my god can I take you on a date??" he asks, almost too loud.

Just as planned. "We can go on dates whenever you want."

"Shut the fuck up, are you serious?"

"So totally serious."

"I... am... gonna embarrass the hell out of you."

Chuck laughs. "Why would you say that?"

"Dean is gonna make fun of us."

"He does that anyway."

"I'm gonna take you on _romantic dates_ , though," he warns.

"Bring it on, cheeseball."

"Why did you leave me alone so long?" Sam pouts.

"I'm sorry," Chuck says, low and genuine. "You can do anything you want with me, now. Do everything. We have to use all the time we've got." He cards his fingers through Sam's hair to soothe him.

Sam hugs him close. He seems to be thinking. He doesn't like reminders that hunters' lives are short, no matter how subtle. Just another thing he wants to rebel against.

"Hey," he finally says. "Charlie told me about the convention."

"Okay. Do you think we should do it?"

"We?"

"We'd all be going."

"And are you, um. Gonna go as yourself?"

"... I'm not cosplaying, if that's the question?"

"I mean. Are you gonna admit you're Carver Edlund? And do the panel?"

He shrugs. "I've done a convention before. And it was way more," he shudders, "focused. On me. And awful. And stressful. But this will just be one thing. And if everybody wants to go. Then. You know. It'll be a family trip and nobody has to kill anything."

"Why do you keep saying things that make me wanna touch you but you won't let me close the door?"

"Because Dean's gonna come looking for you soon. He said he wants to have a Winchester day."

"Is he still denying that refers to everybody in this house?"

"Yeah. Well, I mean. No. But he meant a brothers day."

Sam sighs. Untangles himself from around Chuck.

He gets up and closes the door. Comes forward and shuts the laptop. Shoves it up the bed.

Then thinks better of it and moves it to a table.

"Hello, I just said we're not getting naked," Chuck waves like he can't get Sam's attention.

"You can keep your clothes on while I'm blowing you. Most of them anyway."

"Sam," he whines, "you spring this on me and we're only gonna have like five minutes to enjoy it."

"Unless I can get you to make noise. Then he'll just turn around and come back later," he moves forward to kneel on the bed. "Scoot way up to the pillows, I'm gonna be here a while, I need room."

Chuck doesn't move. "I'm not participating in this. Did you ever think maybe I just flat-out don't want to be heard by other people? I'm actually not cool with your policy on noise."

Sam slumps. "If we have to be quiet because other people are around, we're never gonna get to have sex, though. Other people are always around. And I can't stand it when you think you have to be quiet."

"I _can_ be quiet, though."

Sam's eyes fucking go up in flames.

"Or not," Chuck raises his hands. "Or not. Okay. Sorry."

"I will fucking destroy anybody who tells you-"

"Okay! Okay. Got it. Sorry."

"Please scoot up?" he tries.

"Sam. I'm not-- I'm sorry. I know you have a bod and you're totally entitled to feel like it's awesome to show off your whole technique and whatever but. This is. You're looking at me like I'm an idiot but. I'm just. Not okay with our private stuff being. I mean. I know you guys are always in each other's pockets. I just," he sputters to a halt. Unable to go so far as crushing Sam's occasionally really hot caveman tendencies, but still can't get over being weirded out on this specific issue.

Sam sits there on his knees and considers him.

At last he nods. "Yeah. I'm in total disagreement with you on this but I don't want you to feel that way." He sighs. "I don't know how to fix it."

"I mean. There are other rooms. Other floors."

Sam narrows his eyes. "Other places to live."

"Hey, I didn't say--"

"I did," Sam jumps in. "This is official strike one against living in the bunker."

Chuck droops. "I'm sorry. No one has even said anything about it yet. I just." He shrugs.

Sam crawls forward into his space and sinks even to him. "This is probably something I should have thought about _before_ it made you uncomfortable. Give me a while, I'll figure it out, I promise. I kinda. I um. I forgot about your shell." He takes Chuck's face in his hands. "I didn't mean to make you feel that way."

"Sorry."

"Nope. It's not like it's a deal breaker. It's something we can fix."

"I think it makes me boring."

"We just told a really cool story together. You're not boring."

"I don't like fucking up your life, you know. I don't like it when you have to change things to make me fit in."

Sam settles to sit in front of him. "So you think you should be the only one who has to change things to fit _me_ in? Chuck. No. We both change for this. We both adjust. If only one person does, that's not even, that's not equal. It's- it's not," he looks for the word. "Teamwork. It's not healthy. It's not even. _We_ are equals."

Chuck closes his eyes.

"Can I ask you for something else?" Sam kisses his head.

"Yeah." He'll do pretty much anything to cover for the fact that he just chickened out of having an interesting and enviable sex life.

"I don't have any pictures of you."

"You don't need pictures of me," he fucking chickens out on that, too. Great.

"I seriously do. I really do."

Chuck opens his eyes. Sam is being sad and romantic and earnest again. Chuck lays down, folding into a weird mess around Sam's knees.

Sam comes down, too, his legs hanging off the bed.

Chuck takes a deep breath. "Alright. Okay."

He drops his hand to Sam's jeans and pats his pockets until he finds his phone in the right. He pulls up the camera and hands it over. "I'm giving you some solid vogue shit so get ready."

Sam smiles. So Chuck grips his head and kisses his face from the side. Sam snaps a picture of them that way.

They assess the picture for a moment. "Not bad. You have a thing," Sam turns to pull something fuzzy off his shirt.

"Am I pretty, now?"

"Beautiful. C'mere." He replicates the same, kissing Chuck's face. Then checks it. "Oh, you're grimacing, that's perfect."

"Do-over."

"Yeah," he tries again and keeps them both. Then he keeps posing Chuck and taking pictures. Chuck makes him get in them, too, when he can.

"Porn next time," Sam says. "Naked pics."

"Uh. No."

"I won't show anyone."

"Famous last words or whatever. No. If you want my dick you just have to stick around for it."

"Smile more," Sam requests.

"Tch," Chuck scoffs, "don't you appreciate me in my natural state?"

Sam pauses and looks over the phone and with all sincerity says, "I absolutely do. I _love_ you." Clicks. "YES. That's the reaction I wanted. Good job."

"I didn't do anything."

"You did on that one. You just don't know you do it."

"Wait, what do I do?"

There's a knock. Dean, muffled, on the other side. "It doesn't sound like grunts and moans in there, is it safe?"

" _Oh my fuck_ ," Chuck whispers and crawls up to the pillows and buries his head under the pile.

"Son of a bitch," Sam sighs. "He fucking had to, didn't he?"

Sam flips the covers over Chuck and hides him completely.

Chuck doesn't move a muscle. He hears Sam answer the door.

"Sorry, what did you say?" he asks, breezily.

"Oh. Nevermind. I guess you guys aren't screwing around. For once."

"What the hell, Dean," he can practically hear the eye roll.

"C'mon, get your shit, we're goin' someplace."

"Yeah. Gimme a minute."

"If you're gonna hunt him down, save the hanky-panky for later, we got places to be. I'm gonna get the car, I'll wait up top."

"Jesus," Sam mutters. It's quiet for a minute while he scrounges up his jacket and shoes. He sits on the edge of the bed, warm against Chuck's side where he's hiding. He gets everything on and then pokes around under the pillows.

"I'm really fucking sorry about the noise thing, sweetheart."

Chuck shrugs and stays burrowed where he is.

"You gonna nap there?"

"Yeah."

"Gimme your belt. Gimme the hoodie so you don't overheat."

While Chuck yanks these off, Sam fixes the pillows back under him.

"Send me the second picture," Chuck requests.

"Sure."

"And find out if Dean's interested in the Con thing."

Sam kisses his head, then his mouth. "Go to sleep."

"You're my favorite. Of the Sams. You're the only one who matters. Just for the record."

Sam leans down and presses his mouth against Chuck's forehead again. "I'll figure out the room thing," he says into his skin. "Go to sleep. Cas knows you have to eat when you wake up so don't-"

"I know. Have fun. Love you."

Sam stays there and breathes for an extended moment, holding Chuck's face and pressed against him. "No matter what happens- and I don't mean that to sound ominous. But. Just. All the time, and whatever happens around us, you end up making me happy. Like you cracked something off and it's all falling away and pretty soon, I won't remember what it's like to walk around sad all the time."

Yes.  
_Yes._

Perfection.

That is pretty much all he's wanted since the beginning.

And it wasn't just re-writing Sam's thoughts about himself or helping him hunt better or making it so that Sam could move on and make progress and start a family of his own.

 _Chuck_ does that for Sam.  
He sticks around and he isn't a burden. He makes good things happen.

He is completely awestruck. There is nothing better. There is nothing muddy left in that moment. He feels all the fog rolling away. Any indecision, insecurity, doubt.

"Thank you," he says, feeling it in his guts, in his spine, feeling it hold the pieces of his brain together.

"No," Sam kisses his hair. "Thank _you_. You want the light off?"

"Yeah."

"'Kay." He kisses Chuck one more time and clicks off the lamps and goes, shutting the door behind him quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Coffee Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6E-Y9eLUOHw), and I'm pretty sure I stole the line "blunter than a bag of hammers" from [Orange](http://robotmango.tumblr.com/). Shout-out to my boo.


	4. a day without fun is a day that eats shit

He answers the knock at the door. It's Cas.

"Uh. I made sandwiches," he nods down the hall.

Chuck blinks several, several times.

Cas nods like, _Oh, right_. "I'll start coffee." He leaves again.

Chuck turns the lights back on and yawns and stretches and finds where Sam put his glasses and stuff.

He gets his hoodie over his head before he decides to poke through the closet and steal one of Sam's flannel shirts, instead. He has to roll the sleeves way up. He doesn't really like this look. He keeps it on just because he can and shuffles up to the kitchen.

Cas gives him coffee in Sam's mug.

Cas shrugs when he hands it over.

"Nah, it's cool. I'll be standing in for Sam today."

Cas appreciates this joke enough to smile.

"More research, then. Sounds appropriate."

"Yeah. Can I ask you something that I'm completely embarrassed about without you telling Dean?"

"Possibly," Cas shrugs.

"Do you guys hear everything down the hall when Sam and I are-- getting. Getting it on?"

"I've only heard it once, as I was passing your door. Do you hear us?"

"Um. I guess I don't pay attention."

"That's strange. Dean is rather loud."

"Geeze, um. Okay, Cas." That's something he likes to pretend he forgets about Dean.

Cas shoves a plate toward the center of the kitchen table. "Eat first. Then we can conduct a test."

"Test of what?"

"This place is warded and locked up in several ways. Layers of spellwork. Not even I can detect everything. Perhaps the doors have some kind of soundproofing."

Yeah, see, Chuck didn't need to know that Dean is _that_ loud.

There's grating at the bottom of the dorm doors. This place wasn't really built to hold long-term residents. Let alone... families.

But the doors do muffle well enough. You really have to speak full-volume to be heard through them. Charlie wanders around to see what all the yelling is about when she hears Cas shouting in response to Chuck in the hall.

She yells through her door, too, and yells into some vents, when Cas lifts her on his shoulders.

She's the first one to figure it out, looking at the edge of the door straight on.

"Okay! Hold on!" she stops their conversation excitedly. "Check it."

She steps inside Sam's room and shuts the door. They can hear her yelling from the hall.

She comes back out, points at them, and steps back in.

But this time she throws the lock.

She claims that she screamed and screamed. They couldn't hear.

She's a troublemaker like Dean, though, so Chuck leaves some music on his laptop really loud. He doesn't carry the key to the room, so he takes Sam's lockpick kit. And locks himself out of the room.

"See?" Charlie says when they can't hear a thing. Even Cas can only barely hear the music with his enhanced angelic whatever, and that's with his hand pressed to the door.

Chuck texts Sam a little later.

**Good news and good news and bad news.**

**What's up?**

**Good news: Figured out the noise thing!**  
**Good news: The bedroom locks can't be picked.**  
**Bad news: I can't get my laptop back until u bring the key :(**

**ur having an exciting day**

«»

Further experimentation proves that knocking sounds through the doors both locked and unlocked. It allows for people to be announced but not much more than that. It seems to be exclusive to the dorm doors and the interrogation rooms they found on the lower levels past the dungeon.

Charlie does a rubbing of the side of the door which reveals a pattern on the hardware of the locks. She scans it in and tries to search for a match for anything she's scanned out of the library so far.

Cas is still interested in figuring more of it out, but Chuck is annoyed about losing his laptop for the day. He goes down to the archives to do more reading on binding spells. Charlie eventually wanders down and finds him.

"Cas says you guys are translating stuff."

"Yeah. You want the papers we're done with? So you can digitize or whatever?"

She sits on the floor with him. "Sure. What are we looking for?"

"I didn't initiate you into our research cult because you're doing more important stuff. This is just something I don't think'll work."

"Something like whhaaaat?" she sing-songs.

He sighs. "We're not talking about it. It's my personal mission and I don't think it will-"

"Well you could give it a better chance of working if you add technology to the mix."

He considers. "I know."

"Is it for you?"

"No."

"Sam?"

He exhales.

"It's not a Winchester Secret, right? Because those are an awful idea every time."

"Sam knows. I don't really update him on it because nothing has panned out and he wants to get his hopes up just about as much as I wanna crush them, which is not at all."

"You wanna stop talking in code and fucking initiate me, then?"

He puts his stack of files down. "Yeah."

"Should I grab a tablet?"

"I guess."

"Do you think they should stop hunting?" she asks out of nowhere.

"I think that time has long since passed. I think they need to be. Well. Bobby."

"I never got to meet him," she says, sadly.

"Technically I didn't, either. I just," he motions at his head, "have his brain in my brain. All of his knowledge."

"So if you have all that, why do you need to research?"

"I let a lot of it... stagnate. I try not to touch a lot of it. When I do that too much, other memories," he shrugs, "wake up. The hunting, you know, when things come, they come. Things just surface and I can use them. But if I go looking for it for no good reason. Sometimes," he clears his throat.

"Panic attacks?" she asks before he can finish.

"And stuff," he admits.

She thinks for a second. "Did you." She stops. "Sam never talks about it. But Dean tal- well. You wrote about what Dean talked about in the books. About hell?" she prompts.

"There's a reason Sam doesn't talk about it," he gets up. "I need more coffee."

"Sorry," she gets up and follows him. "Bad huh?"

"I think it's only 'bad' if you circle past 'bad' by a few jillion light years and pop back out the other side of the universe next to 'bad' again."

She doesn't have anything to say to that which is literally the only appropriate response.

"Chuck?" she sticks behind him as they walk upstairs. "He really is happier than I've ever seen him in the whole time I've known him."

He jams his hands in his pockets at the top of the stairs and waits for her.

"It's. I want a binding spell for Sam. So he can never be occupied again. So he never has to worry about it again. I can. I mean I guess I can make him happy. And that's what I wanted most. For him to know that someone. Sees. Really sees. And likes him no matter what. And this is my secondary mission. So." He makes the sign of the cross in her direction. "You're initiated into the cult. Get your tablet."

"You'll tell me when we're tight enough to hug it out, finally, right?"

"I um. Yeah maybe. Eventually."

"Cult fist bump?" she offers, puts up her hand.

Chuck gives her a fist bump.

«»

Sam and Dean stay out late so the three of them are able to float around the bunker doing research, loading Charlie's equipment up with new information. They get sidetracked by her deciding that Cas should teach her computer a dead language. It's fascinating and distracting and it leads Cas to tell stories that send up little flares in Chuck's head. He doesn't quite want to follow the ideas to their origin. But he knows they're open for him. Waiting for discovery.

It's a few steps in the right direction.

Charlie goes to bed and Chuck doesn't have a room and Castiel doesn't have to sleep. So it's eventually just Cas and Chuck in the kitchen. Chuck unable to decide if he should start another pot of coffee or crash on the couch.

"This information, if we find it, that is-- it will be relevant to Dean. And others."

"Yeah. Yeah, I mean, you don't have to keep it from him. Unless. I donno. Unless he likes that you can flash into his head. Or, for all we know, it could be complicated by how much of yourself you used to tie him together."

"Those are valid points. But I intend to tell him. If we find something."

Chuck shrugs. "Tell him now. I don't know the current exchange rate between how pissed he gets about secrets and the disappointment if it doesn't pan out. You have a better idea of it."

"You just don't want to talk about it _together?_ " Cas guesses.

"As a family? Not really. I just. Out of the two of them, Sam _will_ get his hopes up. And Dean would do something dangerous or stupid to accomplish it. I'm just being cautious."

Cas nods. "Point taken." He checks his phone.

"I'm gonna do that, too," Chuck decides aloud and wanders to the other room.

 **ETA?** he sends to Sam.

**Fucking forever the way this is going.**

Right, so, he'll start that coffee.

He takes a fresh cup down to the lower levels with him.

He takes a file with and wanders to the interrogation rooms.

If they had to, it might make for another sound-proof living area. Probably easier to wait for Cas and Charlie to decode and replicate the sigils that could make any room they wish silent.

He sits at a dented interrogation table and sets up shop. The light is lousy. Probably good for writing.

He ain't writing by hand though. Goddamn laptop.

And next thing he knows there's a distant clatter that jolts him awake and his head is resting on the hard, metal table. His neck twinges as he moves. His coffee cup is cold to the touch.

"Chuck?" Sam calling him, on the edge of worried or pissed. Distant.

Chuck blinks puts a hand to his neck. Ow.

Sam halts in the doorway.

"God, fucking what the fuck, Chuck???"

"Shit, that's amazing," Chuck says. "Normally you put so much _effort_ into not saying 'fuck' and 'Chuck' like that in a sentence. It's thrilling to hear you slip up."

Sam gives him a really hurt look. "I couldn't find you."

"Shit," he really fucked his neck up. "I zonked. Didn't know that was gonna happen," he hisses, moving his head.

Sam gives one of those full-chest heaves of breath. He comes into the little room, looming in the small space.

He moves Chuck's coffee away from his elbow and closes his files. "It's five a.m. I've been looking for you for like 40 minutes." 

"Sorry."

"Don't. Just come to bed." He pulls Chuck to his feet and puts both big, warm hands to his neck. "Wrecked yourself, didn't you?"

Oh, man. Sam's hands will fix him, though, so it's no big deal. Awesome. He moans pitifully as Sam rubs a bolt of pain away.

"Bed," Sam repeats. "Please. I'm exhausted." He takes Chuck in by the waist and hands him his files. He takes the coffee cup himself.

Chuck reaches for the coffee as they head to the stairs. Sam pulls away and holds it out of his reach. "No."

"I wasn't gonna drink it. I'm just carrying my stuff."

Sam sends Chuck up the stairs in front of him. He dumps the mug in the first sink they pass. Only then does he hand it over.

The bedroom is unlocked and quiet. The laptop died hours ago.

Chuck puts his stuff down and heads to the closet.

"So, you figured out the noise thing?" Sam asks and he still sounds a little peeved.

"Yeah. You leave the door unlocked, you can hear stuff on either side. You lock the door, you can't hear anything unless you knock. It's three times minimum, Cas found out."

He joins Sam back at the door. Points at the lock, on the side.

"Huh."

"Yeah, Charlie's gonna find out if it can be replicated. Or something. She's already calling it 'muffliato'."

Sam closes the door. "So if I lock it," he locks it. "They can't hear us. We just have to make sure it's locked."

"Yeah. So I was freaked over nothing," Chuck shrugs, "sorry about that."

"Mm." Sam unlocks and locks the door again. "Well, good. Now we need to talk about something."

Chuck frowns. "'Kay. I didn't mean to hide from you," he tries to explain. "I wasn't trying-"

"No, I know. I was just expecting you to be on the couch." He turns. "And I wasn't expecting you to be wearing my clothes."

"Ah."

"So the room is sound-proof and you're wearing my shirt. I'm thinking this was the part that was planned."

"Uh. It wasn't," Chuck cocks his head, "this was for me. Because I decided I was allowed. But I'm glad you approve."

"I'm gonna fuck you really fucking hard."

"Oh. Well. Good thing I just got some sleep I guess. You want to give me a starting point? What should I talk about?"

"Fuck." Sam swallows, crowding in. "Anything. What's on your mind?" Then he yawns.

"I'm thinking about how you've been up since like seven yesterday. We should sleep first."

"We should test the limits of that 'muffliato' thing first," Sam says, tugging him in.

"Technically we've been doing that. And you're tired. What did Dean make you do?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Please let's not."

Chuck laughs at him. It gets his face kissed. Sam envelops him and sways him a moment.

"Love you. I really am tired, you're right."

"Let's leave the door locked and you can wake me up however you want to."

Sam blinks at that. It's not an idea he's totally okay with yet.

"You can. You're allowed," Chuck tries to convince him. "You move me around all the time when I'm sleeping."

"Just to make you comfortable."

"And it would be _uncomfortable_ to wake up to a blowjob?"

Sam considers this for a moment but still doesn't agree. "I want you to be able to feel all of it anyway."

Chuck grips him tight. He understands and he isn't gonna push it. "Take my clothes off."

Sam does and puts him to bed but every time Chuck tries to pull him into a real kiss, Sam curves away, kisses somewhere else.

"Sam," he says, exasperated.

"Sorry. I had. I have to go brush my teeth. I'll be right back." 

"It's like 5:30 in the morning."

"I'll be right back."

What the fuck.

Chuck burrows into the covers again.

His brain tells him he missed something. The shirt he wore today smells very different from the way Sam smells right now. The scent was familiar so he didn't try to place it immediately. But it reminds him of low lights and dark rooms.

Not a bar. Huh. _Maybe_ a bar?

When Sam comes back, he makes sure the door's locked again.  
When Sam climbs back on the bed, he tosses his shirt.  
When Sam's shirt is gone, he gets on top of Chuck where he is in the middle of the sheets.  
When Sam gets there, he turns Chuck and holds his head and brings him up just slightly to kiss, full-on and deep.

He tastes like toothpaste.

He smells like.

Sam intensifies everything, suddenly. The way he handles Chuck and the way he's positioned over him and the meaning of the kiss. He starts pulling the covers down and is all of a sudden heading for the bone-zone anyway. What the _fuck??_

Chuck worms away.

Sam slumps to like half his height. "A strip club," he chokes out, confessing. "Goddamnit. Fuck. I'm sorry. Dean wanted to go to a fucking strip club and he got so hammered I couldn't go anywhere without him and I had like three beers and I forgot I couldn't let you taste me until just right now and I'm so fucking sorry, oh my god, I'm _sorry_ ," he pushes his hair behind his ears and slumps where he kneels over Chuck, clutching the back of his own head. "I'm so fucking sorry. Holy shit. I'm sorry."

Chuck rolls his eyes. "It was a strip club, not manslaughter. Calm down."

Sam sinks further into his shoulders. He looks miserable. "I never asked you if you were okay with me going to those types of places."

Chuck tells himself not to laugh and he gets there. It takes a few long moments of rubbing his eyes.

"Sam."

"I can sleep on the couch."

"Why? Did you fuck somebody else?" he opens his eyes.

"NO."

He pulls Sam's hands down. Sam curves them around his face. "Why do you feel so guilty?"

"I didn't ask if this was something that was okay in our relationship. I didn't even want to go."

"Why did you go, then?"

He rolls his eyes. "It was supposed to be brother stuff, I didn't know it would be shitty, skeevy brother stuff. I don't know what I thought it was gonna be. Dean keeps doing. I donno. Crappy things."

"Yeah. He does. I'm tired of it. Are you tired of it?"

"Yeah. But what can I do about it?"

"That's a question for when we wake up and ask the matriarch."

"Matriarch?"

"We're gonna stop this bullshit. We're gonna put Charlie in charge."

Sam looks confused.

"Don't think about it right now. You look awful, Sammy, please just sleep."

"I didn't wan-"

"I know. I know. And you love me. I know that, too. You love me so much, it's completely amazing. I'm not mad. I'm not disappointed. Dean's a dick. You didn't do anything wrong. Not anything. You're worried about fucking us up. But nothing went wrong between this-- between yesterday morning and now. Okay?"

"Nothing?"

"No. We found out some cool stuff about the bunker and you fulfilled your brotherly obligations for the week. More than fulfilled, I think, if you just drove Dean home and poured him into bed. And you're really careful with me, making sure I don't have any reason to drink whatsoever, which, you know. Okay. Whatever. And you're needlessly worried that I'll feel abandoned because you looked at some tits. Tits are nice. You like tits, you can look at tits. I don't care. As long as you wanna come home and jump me over some laundry I'm not concerned that you're attracted to more than one human at a time. Overly-polite, paranoid pansexual."

Sam looks walloped. "When you disappear into the dungeons and shit, can you just leave me a note from now on?" he says, so, so exhausted.

Chuck makes him scoot, tosses aside the covers and draws Sam between his legs. "I'll try to remember to do that."

Sam carefully lays down and twists around him and Chuck tightens where he's finally settled.

"I think I'm done being unsure about this," he says.

Sam breathes into his neck. "I wanted to hear that. So bad. This isn't temporary."

"Thanks. Thanks for giving me a home. I'm not talking about the bunker."

"Oh, god. Thank _you_." He strokes a hand down Chuck's thigh. "Actual, literal residence."

"We gonna list each other as our address?"

Sam yawns again. "Definitely."

He falls asleep on Chuck for once.

Around this time two years ago, he had a dumpy, damp apartment in Atlanta. He'd barely spoken to anyone in three years.

Around this time a year ago, he was getting to know Sam again. Wondering if they'd be friends. If life would be a little less empty for both of them.

And right now he's pretty sure he's gonna protect Sam for the rest of his life. He's pretty sure Sam is gonna keep him safe until the world ends.

He doesn't see what will be anymore, what will come to pass. It's been years since that happened.

Considering he couldn't see this coming, he's fucking thrilled.  
He suddenly really likes surprises.

«»

Chuck wakes up before Sam and he has a limited range of motion because he intends to let him sleep. Sam's phone is still in his pocket. Chuck can feel it through his jeans.

There's still a line here. Sam hasn't made it clear so Chuck has to edge way far around the boundaries. Can't toe too close. If Sam won't even kiss him awake on an invitation, Chuck has to assume that incidentally feeling him up is uncool.

He can slip the phone out with two fingers.

He realizes, while doing so, that Sam keeps his phone in his right pocket for Chuck. He normally answers with his left so his dominate hand is free to function.

Chuck just digs for his phone so often that he changed his habits for him.

Chuck stops and soothes his hand down Sam's side. Holds him closer for a moment until Sam sighs comfortably in his sleep.

He's determined not to start getting weepy-emotional over Sam's pockets.

He goes for the phone again and it slips out easily.

Chuck can check his email at least and read some articles.

He gets sidetracked by a file saved out in the open.

**Swan Song.pdf**

He never reread the final draft. And, since he's known the files were dumped onto the internet, he's only gone looking to reference something out of them twice.

He opens it and starts reading.

His style here is familiar to him. More so than the earlier books, the published ones. His writing was going through a change by that point. He felt progressively worse about basically stealing all his material for the action. It only made him dig deeper. He pulled the backstories out of the actions Sam and Dean took and wrapped it around like taffy. Pulling from the past to define the present. To make any potential audience know that it wasn't just an adventure that was happening.

Two people, two very important humans, were going to be crushed under the weight of what happened.

He reads. It's.

Damn.

It's pretty good. It holds up.

At the point where Sam asks Dean not to watch him drink the gallons of demon blood, Chuck can't read outright anymore. He has to skip.

He used the Impala to drive the audience through the story.

Decent technique. Not bad at all.

_Never, in fact, homeless._

He considers the words again. Blanks out the phone screen and runs his hand up and down Sam's back, slow and lazy.

He thinks that a return is impossible. Too much has changed. Engine overhauls in each of them. Resurrections and busted lips.

Dean is in pain. And, in a way, he deals with pain worse than Chuck ever did. He drinks, too. But he denies he has the ability to cry and he drives around with an arsenal.

He _is_ an arsenal.

It's not Cas's fault that he doesn't want to change Dean or have a hand in squeezing him into a new slot in life. Cas still isn't used to measuring change by the hour. And by this point he'll take Dean however he can get him.

He's still pretty sure Cas doesn't know how unfair this is to him, even if things are more settled since Oregon.

Convincing Cas of that without insulting him is the minefield. It's not that Castiel doesn't understand his own mind or their situation. It's that he's too cautious to invade and understand Dean's mind. He doesn't have prophetic insight and he's cautious about not listening to Dean's thoughts. But how loud does Dean, a planet-saving monster slaughterer, have to cry out when normal cries for help are just Dean's Monday morning?

It's time to push.

He truly thought things would shine, all of them in the bunker and adjusting their centers around a newer, fuller family.

And, instead, Sam and Dean are making each other miserable.

He never saw that coming. He thought Sam pulling away was causing the strain. But the job is causing the strain.

What they're really waiting to find out is how many more restarts they get before the next death is a permanent game over.

Now, he's not saying that retirement is upon them.  
He's saying that the idea that there could, some day, be a retirement, instead of mandatory messy deaths, is confusing the hell out of them.

And maybe, just a little bit, they need their own spaces and their own people to soak in and get used to the idea for a while. Individually. Without the aching weight of being capital-t, capital-w, The Winchesters.

Sam, always sure of the inevitably of change, is more ready than Dean is. He doesn't wanna lose grip on his brother through it, though.

Chuck can't help but come too close to the line for a moment. He kisses Sam's shoulder and keeps his hand slow on his back.

He pulls up Swan Song again.

Puts it down after skimming some more.

It's really hard to read. Really hard to deal with.

The world didn't know it lost Sam that day. Just a handful of people.

Chuck knew.

And he went from seeing that horrible shit and straight into a tree.

And here's Sam warm against him in the dark of their room.

He suddenly really needs him. He wishes he could wake Sam up. But it's only been six hours. He wants him to sleep as long as his body requires.

Sam shifts under his wandering hand.

_Never, in fact, homeless._

Is it really his turn to feel that? He starts having one of those disconnected moments where it's almost like he's seeing himself through his own narration. Always so fucked up. Leaves him questioning reality. As if he didn't do that every day. Feeling an old motion, déjà vu, and trying to remember if he already started the coffee machine. Brushed his teeth. Turned off the headlights after parking the car.

He gets to have this? Really?

He gets to make a home within somebody? Within _Sam_ , of all people? He gets to not get left alone?

How??

Who let him have this? What the fuck kind of paperwork mix-up made this possible?

"Hey," he decides to wake Sam after a spiraling eighteen minutes of this with no end in sight. "Get up, I need you."

Sam tugs him in, snuffling awake like the biggest damn bunny ever.

"Stop being cute. I need to speak with Sam Winchester."

"For a supernatural emergency, please hang up and dial 911," he croaks.

"Please?"

Sam mistakes that for the kissing 'please'. He pushes forward and starts in and,-

Oh. Actually that's what he needed.

Oh, nevermind. That _was_ the kissing 'please'. That was what he needed!

Yes. He really is right here. Tangled up in Sam's limbs and being adored.

How, though?

Weird, dangerous, religious, infuriating, unreasonable supernatural stuff. That's how.

"Wow, okay, sorry, you can go back to sleep. Crisis averted."

"You're okay now?" Sam confirms.

"Yeah, thanks. You wanna move? We can roll over and go back to sleep."

"I wanna know what the crisis was, first."

"Nothing. Existential writer stuff."

"You sure?"

He presses the phone to Sam's chest and he takes it. "Why do you have that book on your phone?"

"Um. I have a few books on here." Sam wakes the phone up and it illuminates his face. "Oh. That book."

"Yeah," Chuck sighs. "I shouldn't have opened it."

"I read it a while back." He sniffs and blinks. His eyes find Chuck's before he sends the screen dark again. "Hey," he says, and puts the phone down somewhere behind him. He tugs Chuck back in and moves them around, but Chuck still needs to be facing him, even if it's dark. He gets up and crawls to Sam's other side.

Sam sighs and moves, too. "We're gonna have a day, I think. Just you and me."

"I think we have things here to handle. Honestly."

"If they've waited till today they'll wait until after I take you on a date. You said I could."

Chuck becomes a soppy mess at once, presses himself right back into Sam's arms. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I'm kinda doubting my reality at the moment. It got too good, too fast. I'm just concerned."

"You consider angel abduction and six weeks of separation followed by Greek goddess abduction followed by chupacabras, 'too good too fast'?"

"Alright. See. This is why I needed you. Perspective."

"Yeah, I think you're gonna need me more than just the one time. You should consider keeping me around."

"Oh, you're locked in. We have a permanent appointment."

"No take-backs."

"Clearly."

"Wanna rejoin the world yet?" Sam asks.

"No. You gonna sleep some more? I shouldn't have bothered you."

"You should always tell me when you need me. No joke. Dead serious."

Chuck takes a deep breath. "In that case, I need you to hold me and tell me how awesome this is. How good it's gonna be."

"Oh, _no_ problem," Sam sounds excited. He gathers Chuck up and pulls him on top of himself, laying back. He settles between Chuck's legs and says, "Residence."

"I like that."

"Me, too. Wanna talk about how much of a difference you've made in my life?"

"Yes."

"I always have someone to talk to. I'm allowed to say all of it. Anything. I get to breathe through it and just spit it out and you make sense of it for me. I don't box words up anymore. I'm allowed to be confused and sad and thrilled and excited about stupid stuff."

"That's pretty cool."

"I have a friend. I have a new family. Or my family's growing. However that works. I have a significant other. And you've been around-- shit. You've been around for a while now. Fuck. Are we doing anniversaries?"

"We did my sober anniversary."

"You wanna do our six months?"

"... No?"

"Aw, man. How come?"

"I don't. Um. We don't have to be a sequence of dates. Just. Numbers. It's not necessary."

"So we're not doing anniversaries?"

Chuck sighs. "You're doing it anyway, aren't you?"

"Am I gonna give you stuff for almost no reason? Yeah, pretty much."

"What do you need to give me so much?"

Sam side-steps the question. "I think. I think we're at 5 months? Ish?"

"Where are we going today?"

"I think you're forgetting something."

"Pretty hard to forget when I'm on top of you and you're holding me down on it."

"You didn't let me yesterday. The door's locked."

"I know."

"So can I?"

Chuck kisses him. "Of course."

"Which?"

"Which do you need more?"

"God, you're so fucking good to me. But really," he rolls Chuck underneath himself. "If there's something you've been wanting, that's what I wanna do for you."

Chuck gets settled below Sam. He considers. He needs Sam all around him. He doesn't quite know what to ask for.

Sam starts skimming his t-shirt up his sides and kissing his way up.

"I um. Whatever you can do where you're, like, completely smothering me."

Sam laughs into his skin. He moves a little away and suddenly the lamp is on. Chuck grimaces and blinks.

"I need to see you. Should've warned you, sorry."

"I don't know what I want."

"No, I can do the smothering thing. Can you do something for me?"

"Yeah?"

Sam spans a hand across his belly. "Relax. I need you to not be strung so tight every time. Well, most times. I miss the way you were when we first got back home. Remember how easy it was? How different? Because we were home. In the quiet. Alone. We're alone in here. You know that now. I just want you to feel as easy and calm as I do when we're together. I want some of your panic to go away."

Chuck clears his throat. "Gotta be honest. That's kind of a tall order."

"Okay." Sam runs his hands up and down Chuck's sides, full on and lazy. "Can you tell me why?"

Chuck searches himself. He's quiet for a time.

Sam makes Chuck sit up and he pulls his shirt off of him. "You're going even more tense, Chuck." He kisses into his neck and holds him up, palms radiating warmth into his back. "Is it. I have to ask. Is it because it hurts?"

"No," Chuck shakes his head and lifts his hands to cling to Sam.

"You sure? It's my job to-"

"Nothing hurts. That's not something I can exactly hide from you. You'd know."

Sam exhales long and Chuck can feel how each of the muscles held against him ease up.

How is he not capable of doing that, too?

He inhales and exhales with intent.

He does it a few times and Sam catches on. He holds Chuck's back but doesn't report any difference.

"Nobody's gonna come around. No one's here but you and me," Sam says between laying kisses to his skin. He lets Chuck breathe a while. "If you need it quiet with no people around AND you need sunlight, that's strike two," he mentions.

Too aware, now, Chuck feels his muscles bunch even further.

"No no no," Sam objects, pulling him in tighter. "Forget I said anything."

"I'm sorry," he can't help but slump. Sam is still hard against him but he's being so patient.

"Don't. It's fine. I love you. This is more important."

"Why?" he's getting pissed at himself.

"It's important to me. I need to be able to change whatever this is. I need you to feel okay when we're having sex. That should be when everything's easiest for you. Never any pressure."

"I don't know how you can deal with me all the time."

"Because I love you. I'm not _dealing_ with anything. This is all mine," he sweeps his hands up and down. "I get to take care of you. I'm allowed."

Sam's hands stop. He blinks at Chuck and focuses.

"I'm allowed," he repeats. "You're mine and I'm allowed to take your problems away. You want me in your life. Shh, that's it. You want me to stick around, right? Well, that's good because I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying. You're never gonna get rid of me, oh holy shit. Chuck. You're mine. Everything I am belongs to you. I promise. Sweetheart, I've got you. I don't want anyone else--"

Chuck moans and rolls his hips.

"Oh my god, I'm gonna make you come. That's my job. I'm gonna do it over and over. Only me. I'm the only one allowed. Oh fuck. That's so perfect, Chuck can you feel that?"

He's not entirely sure he can feel anything anymore, really. He might be having an out-of-body experience. He's pretty sure his spine is still there but his back isn't locked up anymore. None of him is.

Sam tosses off his own shirt and lays Chuck back out, gets them both naked. Chuck can only twitch and moan when Sam's hands move over him, move him into place.

Sam shifts between his legs. Scoops his face up. "Time to talk, come back out of your shell for me, hermit crab."

"I love you," he sounds half broken.

"I love you, too. So good, sweetheart. I don't know if I can open you up right now, I think I'm gonna come just watching myself stretch you."

"Oh my fu-" Chuck's hips are out of his control right now. "You said you'd fuck me hard," he says, breathless, when Sam finally just wraps his hand around them both.

"I swear. Next time. Or the next time. I might need my mouth on you first."

" _Sam._ "

"Tell me when you're ready to come for me. But easy. Easy, Chuck, you're fine. I swear I've got you. If you don't want anyone else to touch you, they won't, not ever. That's what I'm here for."

Sam grinds down on him and suddenly all Chuck can do is thank him?

Sam's laugh is small and breathless. "That's exactly what I'm here for. You ready to come? I want you to. Gonna make you feel so good."

"Please. Your hands," is all he's got left.

Sam seems to remember about the smothering thing. He crowds down against Chuck and wraps his other arm around him, pulling him in, off the bed. Taking up so much room between his legs. Breathing his air and passing it on in kisses.

Sam starts to shout and lose rhythm. He lets go of his other focus, lets go of the words, to jack them, bring them off, and stare at Chuck up close.

Chuck just comes on an exhale: pure relief, slumping in Sam's hold and unable to pull himself together.

Sam comes _yelling_ into the skin of Chuck's neck, hot and unloading across his skin.

Chuck doesn't even try to move his own body. He can't right now and anyway that's Sam's job.

"Fuck," Sam breathes. "Fuck. Shit, did you pass out on me? Chuck?"

"Possibly," he mumbles. "I don't think so."

"You can hear me at least."

"Well I guess we know, now, that's a tension thing." He doesn't contribute any work when Sam gets them wiped off and curls them up together. He thumbs at the head of Chuck's cock, then sucks what he's gathered off his thumb. Chuck observes in a distant kind of way. "I think this makes me a caveman, too."

"I find it pretty amazing that I've got words you like just as much as I like yours."

"I'm completely cool with that, yeah." He's still kinda slurring. Sam's cock twitches against his ass. "After coffee, you should spend a while opening me up," Chuck thinks aloud.

"After _lunch_ , I'll probably spend a while sucking you off."

"So contrary."

"Opposites attract," Sam reminds him.

"We're both cavemen, though."

"Chuck, I don't give a shit at all what this makes us. The care and feeding of my hermit crab is my business."

Chuck moans for seemingly no reason.

Sam holds him tight. "I know you said you stopped doubting, but it seems like I'm gonna have to keep working on convincing you that this is how it's gonna be. I'm seriously-- fucking _sincerely_ not going to let you fall apart alone anymore. We're staying together and whenever you need me, I will not be annoyed if you tell me. I will not be mad or annoyed or anything if you wake me up or ask me not to go someplace or you just need me to cover you in blankets and hide you. I am in it, Chuck. Your stuff is my stuff, now. You're already taking all my goddamned, like, mental problems and solving them for me. You're already steeped in my life. The least I can do is protect yours."

All at once.  
Chuck knows exactly where to find something.

It surfaces like tactics and lore in the middle of a hunt.

He knows exactly where to go to find it. And then he will have some reading to do. Needs a good translation. He stumbled into just the right clearing. If a copy of the book is anywhere, Bobby stashed it and it will be someplace he can find it.

He knows. He knows now.

He is so sure. So very sure. He could almost tell Sam right now. But he will make sure, first. Then, sometime soon, he will turn in Sam's arms one night and that will be exactly the right moment. He will know that moment.

He feels Sam kiss along his spine. He doesn't moan as loud this time. His whole body eases and his eyes close.

"I get to keep this."

"Yeah," Sam says. "So do I."

It's like 'I love you' - it's ridiculous.  
It feels truer every time.

«»

They need to talk to Charlie. Alone. But Dean and Cas are floating around the house, deciding to watch new shows or put something in the crock pot or reading the news looking for trouble.

"We could go on a 'hunt' and ask her to come with in the Porsche," Sam whispers, fingerquoting.

"What is it with you assholes and secrets?" Charlie slumps into the library chair next to Sam.

Sam sits up straight, caught out and chagrined.

"We're plotting to overthrow Dean and install you as queen," Chuck says in a normal tone, because she won't buy in if it's a secret.

Sam starts to object but she points at him, "You shut up," points at Chuck, "you keep talking."

"Outside, maybe? Or can you get us a cover story?"

She narrows her eyes.

Chuck puts up his hands, "Hey, the whole point of having you run the game is so you can decide on the big family matters. If you wanna tell them after, that will be your prerogative as president. Ruler. Matriarch. Empress."

A smile twitches her lips.

She stands and disappears.

Dean's laugh bellows somewhere deep in the house.

Charlie reappears with her bag, shoving neatly-tied bundles of cords inside.

She tosses Sam the keys to the Impala.

"Let's go, my darling saboteurs."

«»

They drive east, toward civilization. "What did you tell him?" Sam asks.

"The truth," Charlie smiles. "That you guys came over to the dark side and we were going off to plot my rise to power. He thought it was a joke, so," she shrugs. "Let him."

"Okay," Sam grins. "So where are we headed?"

"Chuck's gonna buy me a Frappuccino," she declares.

Chuck pops over the back of the seat, "I'm gonna buy her a Frappuccino," he says to the rear-view mirror.

"Yeah, you are, sweetheart," Sam agrees, indulgent, not a fucking care in the world that it means they're heading to Salina, like two hours away. Just a Winchester. Pleased to be driving.

"God! See, why can't you guys be this happy all the time?" she gripes.

"That's actually central to the issue," Chuck points.

"Ah. The issue being how everybody in the bunker has to mind their feelings around Dean because he's such a sensitive soul?"

Chuck snorts and drops back in the seat.

Sam clears his throat. "Yeah so. Um. We have some things we need a more objective view on."

Chuck comes forward again. "Dean thought it was entirely appropriate to have brothers-day-out at a strip club yesterday."

Charlie cocks her head. "You wouldn't let Sam go to a strip club if he wanted?"

"What? No. That's not what I said."

"So, Cas isn't cool with it?"

"Cas doesn't know," Sam says.

"But it's a shitty thing to do to him, right?"

She considers further. "I mean. Maybe. But I don't know that Cas would really care."

"Whatever. The issue is that Sam didn't wanna go," Chuck says.

"You didn't?" she asks.

Sam shrugs. "No interest. I've been tired of Dean's obsession with strip clubs for a long time. They're like. Sorry, but. Like a desperately sad place. I know people gotta work but," he shrugs, signals to get around a tractor. "It's just not for me."

"So you're skeeved out by them and I'm assuming Dean knew this?"

"Yeah. He did. He does."

She considers for a moment. "And did you tell him you didn't wanna go?"

"Of course."

"Did you present him with an alternative?"

"We were there before I could even think of one. You ever try dragging him out from between a half-naked sandwich?"

Charlie looks out the window for a while. "I have to admit that it sounds like a shitty thing for him to be doing. But that's his and Castiel's relationship. We have no say in it."

"No say in it!" Chuck can't fucking believe this. "He's our friend!"

She turns a steady gaze on him. "And if it doesn't bother Cas for Dean to leave the house without telling him he's gonna do stupid shit -- which he does. All the time. Then why is it any of your business?" She narrows her eyes.

Chuck blinks. "I mean. It's. Cas doesn't know. And it's shitty. Cas doesn't understand human standards for shitty."

"Tell you what Dean gets better than you do," she bops Chuck's nose with one finger. "Dean understands that Cas isn't a human."

Yikes. Chuck settles back into his seat.

"Alright. Granted," Sam agrees. "Maybe it doesn't bother Cas. But what about the rest of us? I mean, you've been living with us for a while, now, Charlie. Consider the whole scope of what's been happening with Dean. Have you noticed the difference between when he's hunting and when he's not hunting?"

"Pretty hard to miss," she admits, digs through her bag for gum and offers it out to them. "He drinks when he's working. He drinks when he's home. But when he's working, he _keeps drinking_ like it's integral to the job or something. That really does have to stop. That. I mean. With the kids around, especially: that's irresponsible. If he wants them to hang out and learn from us more, he's gonna have to back up on that shit. It may be what _he_ thinks he needs to do the job. But there's no reason to educate them so irresponsibly. I mean. I'll give you guys that."

Chuck waves his hands in an arc. "It's waaay more than that. It's _way_ more than that. Sammy, I know you're gonna hate that I'm saying this. But. Dean thinks he's turning into John. And he's heading there like it's a destination. Not like he's trying to avoid it. He's trying to get there and that means going down sacrificing himself for his kids instead of being there for them. Haven't we seen enough-- hasn't there _been_ enough of that shit?? Why does Dean wanna die on us so much?"

Charlie scoots to lean against the door. She looks to Sam. "Do you think that's true? Don't consider what Chuck said. Did you _really_ think that before your fucking boyfriend said it?"

Sam holds up a finger, squints at a sign up ahead. "I think Dean feels like he's got to prove that the Mark wasn't the only thing under his skin. I think that, to _justify_ going off the rails so hard, or whatever? He feels like he has to prove that he's _also_ a bad guy and it wasn't just the Mark of Cain. Like-- okay. Well. I have to admit to borrowing something Chuck said here. But he puts lots of things into words that I really can't just," he makes a grasping motion with one hand.

"Okay," Charlie prompts.

"Whatever made him feel fucked-up enough to _get_ the Mark, or to _deserve_ it in the first place? I think he's returned to that Stage One of fucked-upness. I think." He sighs. "I know I'm to blame there. I was messed up about the Gadreel thing. And."

"We can't blame you for that," she shakes her head.

"Well. Thanks, I mean. But. It was our typical thing where we don't handle shit very well when we're too close together to see the whole scope of things. So. Dean's still looking at the short view. The close-up view. The future as a soon-to-be-dead hunter. And. Charlie? I think Chuck's right. I think that, if anybody has a chance to make him stop? It's the rest of the family stepping in. And saying, like. _Dean, we know you expected to be dead by now. But it's time for you to stop wanting that. And start living with us._ " He shrugs. "I mean. I don't know how to put it better than that."

Charlie shakes her head. "No. No, I think I get it."

She looks at the miles ahead of them for a while. "So you think."

She restarts. "So. Okay. I agree that Cas is letting him get away with this. Because. I think he feels so lucky that Dean's finally seeing him, he's like the teenager who just can't believe that the quarterback wants to date him."

"YES," Chuck shakes his fists. "That's it, exactly!"

She wavers. "Okay. Like, I get that. And so. I get that he has to grow up out of that and start holding-- they both need to hold each other responsible." She blows bubbles with her gum for a minute. "As much as this shouldn't be our business? Their whole personal dynamic relationship thing? They've made it our business by being destructive. I can see that."

She thinks for a while.

"I can see something else. And we haven't said it yet. I don't know, I mean," she looks back at Chuck. "I don't even have that much time with them. I read the books. And I mean. It seems like they're supposed to be. I donno. Jiving better?" she points at Sam.

Chuck crosses his arms and simply nods.

"Yeah. That's what I thought."

"You lost me," Sam announces, trying to keep his eyes off of them and on the road.

"It's not like you guys suddenly hate each other. But with you not knowing where you belong in the bunker and Dean not knowing where all these people fit and not accepting where Cas fits. It seems like you guys always did better when you were together." She shakes her head. "It's not like that anymore. You guys won't say it but. It's getting tense."

Sam still looks confused. And now he looks uncomfortable.

"We'll have to deal with that later," she waves, thinking to herself. Then she shakes her head again. "I don't think I'm qualified for this, guys. I mean. It's a healthy idea, don't get me wrong. Having someone else, an almost neutral party," she indicates herself. "Having somebody step in to try to sort you out. I get what you're going for here. But I don't think I'm your man."

"You are, though," Chuck says.

"I'm starting to agree," Sam chimes in.

They drive for a while and Charlie tries to find something on the radio.

"I can." She starts, after a while. Stops. Considers. "I'm gonna make sure Cas is okay with going to the con. It will be a new experience for him. And I think you and me and him ought to have a kind of planning session," she says to Sam. "Beforehand. Without Dean there. I just have to make sure that Cas knows what we're getting at. That he needs to start deciding where he stands. Or at least agree that we want the kids to be coming around. I mean. That's what we're doing, right?" she looks between them. "This is gonna be like a Hunter's Hogwarts. Claire can't just get into this because it's our habit. She needs to know what she's fighting for. And not just for herself and for her parents. She needs to find her own reason to be a Winchester. The rest of them will, too."

Sam looks to her briefly and nods. Keeps nodding as he looks back at the road.

"So we'll talk about it. I'll think about it," she amends. "And then we'll talk about it, us three."

"Well," Sam says. "Chuck has-"

"Sorry, no." She looks back. "Chuck, you're not invited."

He doesn't know what to do but stare.

"What do you mean?" Sam says.

"Look. I know that Dean was okay with Chuck being your friend. But he's clearly not okay with Chuck being your romantic partner. Whatever his objections to Chuck are, that means Chuck can't be a part of the planning session. If he is, that'll make Dean feel like we're ganging up on him _on your boyfriend's behalf_. That won't work. Dean was ready to accept Chuck as another connection, but when it seems like Chuck might end up being a part of the family, suddenly it's too sacred to include him. That may not be a hurdle that Dean can get over. But it's not gonna help any if he feels like the invading army is using his family to attack him."

"Invading army," Sam scoffs. "He's just like _inclined_ to pick on Chuck because he's my big brother."

Charlie holds up a hand. "That may be the case. But if they're at odds for whatever reason, that still means Chuck is considered a troublemaking party to Dean's mind. Chuck will just have to keep an eye on him so our planning session doesn't get interrupted by him coming to get Cas."

Chuck shakes his head. "Fine. Whatever. Whatever, just. As long as you agree to do this. That's the important part."

Sam gives him a look in the rear view mirror.

"That's the important part," Chuck repeats, insistent. "The important part is that there's more than one person who isn't Sam who can assure Dean that a series of suicide runs is unnecessary. Because he's _not_ turning into John. John wasn't a fucking--" he stops himself. "Dean had better role models in his life. He remembers his mom. Why doesn't he remember her more when he looks to the future? Fucking tell me that," Chuck demands, angry.

They're all silent. Sam watching the road. Charlie watching Sam. Chuck trying not to watch Sam.

"God. I'm sorry," Chuck says after a while.

"Don't," Sam shakes his head. "It's fine. It's. It's true." He nods after a while. Looks into the mirror to meet Chuck's eyes.

"I'm gonna buy you the fruitiest thing on the fucking menu. In a trenta. It's gonna be as tall as you," he promises.

Sam smiles with the corner of his mouth. But that's all Chuck is gonna get until they stop and air the tension out of this damn car.

Charlie sighs.

"You guys. I love you guys so much. I wish I had this for years. I wish we grew up together so I didn't have to wait so long to straighten your asses out for you."

Sam laughs.

"You really think I can do this? I mean. The kids," she shakes her head. "They're gonna be looking to you guys to teach them."

"But we're all gonna be looking to you to keep us in line," Sam says, nodding. "This is a good idea, Charlie. You're not steeped in this. You haven't let it drown you. You hate the idea of it drowning any of us. We need that. We need you. Being the sunshine and the tsunami. Clearing this out."

Chuck smiles thinking about that. It makes him wanna knock holes in the walls and punch windows out of the cement for Sam. He belongs in the sun. He seriously fucking does. And all he wants is to push other people into the light.

He thinks, with no irony or sarcasm or snark whatsoever, _My hero_.

Because she was cut out for this more than she knows, Chuck finds Charlie grinning at him. She winks.

Because she knows.

«»

Chuck's watching House Hunters because nothing else is on. When Dean dumps himself down onto the couch, he takes the remote and tries to find something better.

There is nothing better.

He sighs.

Chuck watches him disappear and listens to him putz around in the kitchen.

Cas, Charlie, and Sam are plotting stuff in the dungeons. They made it look like super boring research and Chuck is making sure Dean knows nothing about it. He'll know soon enough.

Dean comes back to the couch with his own cup of coffee.

"Wanna drive?" Chuck asks, because there is literally no time of day when Dean doesn't wanna drive.

Dean side-eyes him.  
Bites.  
"Where?"

"Nebraska."

"Why?"

"I know where Bobby stashed some stuff. There are some books I want. And there's a really cool bow."

"Bow?"

"Like a bow-and-arrow bow. Like a weapon you don't have."

"Don't you wanna go with Sam?" he makes a mocking face and gulps coffee.

"Sam's doing boring stuff. You can hang out with me for a few hours and attempt to explain why you fucking despise me so much or we can watch Home and Garden goddamn Television."

Dean slumps into himself. "I don't despise you, Chuck."

"Funny way of fucking showing it, being completely intolerant of the air I breathe, let alone my presence."

"Son of a bitch." He tosses back the rest of his coffee. "Go get your shit."

Chuck finishes his own coffee walking back to the bedroom. He texts Sam. It won't ping to him until he comes upstairs and gets a signal back but it's slightly more immediate than leaving a note and also gives Sam ample opportunity to freak out at Chuck for not saying something earlier.

**Going on a mission with Dean. Txt when u get this. Yes I am bringing my blade no i will not need it.**

Dean doesn't have the pleasure of stewing in his impatience. Chuck meets him at the stairs just as he's heading to the garage.

"Where in Nebraska?"

"Just head north, I'll tell you where to turn."

Chuck takes shotgun which, despite the familiarity, is never not creepy.

Dean puts AC/DC on loud. Straight up to the state line.

He lowers it for directions. Chuck explains vaguely.

"That's like. East."

"East-ish, yeah."

Dean takes a deep breath. "I don't hate you."

"Yeah. You just have a few set things you do like. There's not room for anything else because you like to pretend emotions don't happen to people of your gender."

Dean shuts up.

In a few miles he tries again. "You know how I am about Sam."

"First word that comes to mind is 'protective,' the second is 'unreasonably.'"

"We're all the family we've got."

"Oh, definitely. When we get back, I'll be sure to remind Charlie, Cas, and Claire about that. Just so we're all clear on the matter."

Dean cringes and shuts up again.

Chuck isn't gonna be the first to relent. He had to kill a chupacabra on his own because this prick thought he was being real fucking clever. His anger about that has resurfaced just enough for him to channel it into the Dean in his memory.

Fuck knows that the only real match for Dean in this world is Dean.

"Under no circumstances will you tell them I said that," he points.

Chuck shrugs. "You might wanna start fucking acting like it's true then."

Dean's jaw ticks.

Chuck looks back out on the passing scenery.

"You know what I see, Chuck? My brother hanging off your every word. You're not hot and you're not strong and you're a drunk with dead brain cells so that makes me think some shit's going down and you're just riding him for something. Now, whether that's more stories to tell or just protection because things come after you or you're just fucking with his head, I don't know, but-"

"If you didn't call him a lameass whiny pussy every time he tried to talk about stuff he likes, maybe you'd know what was going on with him and me. But as long as you insist that the only functions Sam serves that you give a shit about are how much he won't leave you and how well he hunts and how well he slaps your shit back together when you fall apart, you're refusing to love a hefty goddamn chunk of him. You're refusing to be 70% of a brother to him. Because it turns out he has more working parts, Dean. Not just the 30% you happen to care about."

"I care about more than that, you little shit. Sam and I share more fucking interests than just the job," Dean barks.

"Is that why you couldn't think of anyplace else to hang out with him other than a couple bars and a strip club? One place he distinctly did _not_ want to go and a whole night of watching you hit on people who weren't his REALLY GOOD FRIEND, CAS? You remember Cas, right, that guy you're boning?"

Dean hits the steering wheel.

"Yeah, yes, he did tell me about that," Chuck nods. "Because he felt guilty. Because you guilted him into something he felt more guilt about. Because he couldn't turn you down. Because he'll do anything to make you happy if he could just figure out what the actual fuck makes you happy anymore other than determinedly being a miserable dick."

He waits a long moment but Dean only stares down the road. "No, we didn't tell Cas," he adds so Dean will at least continue breathing.

This is a really long trip already.

"You." Dean starts and stops. "Hunting makes me happy," he says instead.

"Wow. Such incredibly new and riveting information." Chuck shakes his head. "Yes, killing things makes you happy. Making humans safe makes you happy. OH, IF ONLY Sam would just drop the farce and come back to hunting. Just the three of you. You and Sam and your aching, crying-on-the-inside-but-only-ever-on-the-inside-because-otherwise-that's-super-gay manpain. That's the story you wanna live until you die, isn't it? To the exclusion of all else. Just dump this family off and tell them to go away because they're just not as important as the two-man show. And just do that until you die. Yeah, that's pretty cool. It's awesome to act like there's nothing else to live for. It's great to die rejecting all else because you might have to fucking change for it."

"Do you ever stop fucking talking??"

"Do you ever get to decide to be Dean Winchester? When do I finally get to meet him? Because I've always been a fan of that guy. Haven't seen him around anywhere recently."

Dean grumbles.

"Sorry. Right. I forgot. You like to pretend I don't like you. I'll refrain from mentioning it in the future." He crosses his arms over his chest and stares out the window again.

This is a really unfair fight.

Dean knows it and can't do shit about it.

Chuck lets him drive and find his calm again.

He pulls into a town off the highway. "Wendy's alright with you? I'm starving."

"It's fine," Chuck shrugs.

Dean sighs and winces, waiting at a stoplight. "Will you eat someplace else? If you don't eat Sam'll." He frowns. "Sam'll be pissed."

"Wendy's is fine. I just. I haven't seen a Starbucks."

Dean rolls his eyes. "I'll find you a fuckin' Starbucks after."

«»

 **Whhhhhaaaaat** , Sam finally replies.

Chuck shoves another fry in his mouth and lifts the phone, takes a picture of Dean's hands scraping mayo off his burger bun. Sends it without a caption.

 **Eat lunch, then call me** , Sam replies.

Oh boy.

**D said he'll take me to Starbux if you need my last known location for the authorities.**

After a few minutes, it's clear that Sam ignores the last text. That's how Chuck confirms he's in trouble. "I'm getting in trouble for this," he announces. "Figured that would tickle you."

Dean just gives him a weird look.

Chuck calls because Sam won't care if he's chewing in his ear.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm on a mission with Dean."

"I am really not okay with that today. That's not what we meant when we agreed that you'd watch him."

"I'm gonna get him a cool weapon, though."

"Hi. Hey. Hello, Chuck. I AM NOT OKAY WITH THIS," he doesn't yell, he just uses his full volume.

"We're half-way there already. It's no big deal. We've already shouted at each other and he's taking me to Starbucks. This is like real progress."

"I didn't showwa yoo," Dean says with his mouth full.

"I am not okay with this," Sam repeats.

"We're in Nebraska, we'll be home for dinner. Chill and go back to Cas and Charlie."

"Half-hour updates," Sam requests.

"Okay. You wanna get it off your chest one more time?"

"I'M NOT FUCKING OKAY WITH THIS," and Chuck thinks Dean probably heard that.

"Noted. Sorry I didn't tell you. I didn't wanna go by myself."

"Fuck. It's fine. It's okay. I love you. I don't care that he's there, please say it."

"I love you, too. Is Cas there?"

"Yeah," Sam sighs. "Why?"

"Put him on."

"'Kay hold on. Okay. Love you, here he is," Sam passes the phone.

"Cas?"

There's a clatter. "Hello, Chuck."

"Hey, hold on."

And he just passes the phone to Dean with zero explanation to either of them.

Dean looks caught out. Then he wipes his hands on his jeans, snatches it up, takes it outside.

Chuck finishes his food and gets up to refill his Sprite. He only steals six of Dean's fries before he comes back and hands over the phone.

"Sam," he says, and sits down to keep eating.

"Hi."

"What was that?"

"I was proving to Dean that Cas wouldn't be angry with him for feeling fucked up and dragging you to the strip club."

"How the _fuck_ do you know that I--" but Chuck doesn't listen to Dean.

"We have a plan. And Charlie confirmed your seat on the con panel."

"Oh. Wow. Thanks. I was feeling all omnipotent and shit and you just drag me right back down to nervous."

"You'll be fine. It'll be fun. I'll be there if you need me, hermit crab."

"I will. Guaranteed. We're getting coffee, now."

"Half hour," Sam reminds him. "I am not fucking around."

"I know. It's fine."

Dean gets up to dump the trash.

"Say it again because I'm the one who's nervous, now."

"I love you. I'll text you."

"Okay. Fine. Go. --CHUCK!" he shouts before he can hang up.

"Yeah?"

"Date night. So. Just. Be back by dinner."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Official. For real. Love you, sweetheart."

«»

So this is the main reason he needed Dean to be here. Not for all the room in the Impala. Not for the ride. Not for the lockpicking and camera dodging.

He needed Dean to come to this storage locker so he could be in his real father's presence.

Bobby's stuff surrounds them. And it's got more history and life in it than any of John Winchester's random ammunition cages.

You open the lid of a box in here and it smells like the one, stable house they ever grew up in. There are books and full photocopies of books and there are articles. Newspapers stacked to burst their ties. Tattered by bugs and age.

Past cases. The lives Bobby saved by extension. Because he saved Sam and Dean. Because he was there to help raise them.

Dean blames the dust and steps outside to find something to roll the boxes out to the car.

At the top of the box he just dug through, a picture of Bobby on the phone, taken angled up. From back when Sam was fascinated with disposable cameras.

Pictures of a very young Dean pretending to drive cars in the junkyard lot.

A dog collar from a mutt John wouldn't let them keep.

Chuck closes the lids back up. Obviously he's gonna need the heaviest ones. They'll have the books in them. He finds a long tube package with Rufus's messy scrawl. Checks inside for the bow he knows is there.

When Dean comes back, they load the dolly with boxes. Dean wheels it down and Chuck carries a light one that Dean wouldn't admit he wants.

They assess how much room they have left to pack more into the car. Once the property finds out that the room was broken into, what's left will be removed or stored as evidence.

It takes Dean a few trips to the car to decide that, yeah, fuck it, they're taking it all.

They condense a few boxes and unpack other stuff to fit in whatever cracks are left in the back seat and trunk. All they leave behind is cardboard and the removable middle panel from what used to be Bobby's kitchen table.

They stare at the back seat and then close the door. Chuck retrieves the tube from where he leaned it against the car. He hands it over.

Dean looks inside. Slides the bow out.

Bobby grew up hunting animals. He was practiced in all the different methods. Shooting, fishing, trapping.

Dean is familiar with this bow. It was too big for him to use the last time he saw it.

Chuck knows that Bobby was always trying to remember to pick it back up from storage to teach him when he finally hit the proper height. He just never got around to it.

Dean slides the bow back into the tube and hands it back. Chuck has to keep it in the front seat with him. There's no other room.

"You know where more of these stashes are?"

"Yeah. There's one in Canada, though. It's got a book Charlie's really gonna want. I could go with her. She and I can pass the border no problem."

"Yeah. Yeah, in a while. I think this is plenty to sort through for now."

Dean stands there for a bit longer. He's wearing that, 'I think I just got played but I have no idea how,' expression.

This should make Charlie's plan a little easier. Chuck just had to plant the seeds. Dean will sneak out to the boxes at night, wherever they're stashed in the house. He'll look through them when there's no risk of anybody seeing him. He will see Bobby's notes in the margins, the things he kept, whatever he held on to help them in the future or just because he was secretly a sentimental old bastard. And Cas will track Dean down and maybe, one day, they'll talk. Actually talk about who really shaped Dean's life.

But the rest is out of his hands. Charlie's smart. She should be calling the shots. Chuck can't see their future, but this is where it should be headed.

And Chuck? He should get home and lavish books upon his significant other and be taken on a real life date. How exciting.

Chuck swats Dean with the tube. "Let's get Slurpees."

"Yeah."

«»

Dean gets a bunch of texts from Cas before they leave the 7-11.

"Everything okay?" Chuck asks.

"You're not my fucking relationship counselor."

"Not a fucking high school counselor, either, but here we stand."

"Shut the fuck up and go get in the car."

They're twenty minutes from the bunker when Dean finally says. "I've been a dick to you and you didn't deserve it. So, you know. I'm sorry about that."

Chuck rolls his eyes. "You don't regret it and you don't care. Cas told you to care."

"Has Sam asked you to marry him yet?"

"That's not amusing in the least."

"I figured he would have by now."

"We. Whatever. Get a grip."

"He really hasn't?"

"Dean, you seriously need to look at the road more."

"Fuck you, I drive just fine."

Chuck keeps staring out the window.

"Do you think-"

Chuck turns up the music.

Dean only turns it back down but he doesn't try to talk anymore shit.

Chuck calls Cas when they get there because he can carry the most boxes at a time.

Everyone comes up to the front entrance to haul boxes down. They spread it all over the war room table and chairs. Dean gets tugged away by Cas. He brings his bow with him.

The rest of them start picking through stuff.

"I want a full-sized industrial scanner/copier," Charlie says. "You think we could get one of those in here?"

"Cas can get anything in here," Sam points out.

Charlie seems to seriously contemplate this as she picks through some hand-bound reproductions of ancient books.

Sam is hovering at Chuck's back. "I know it's getting late," he waves a hand, "but I need the box with the red dictionary on top."

They start opening boxes until Sam finds it.

Chuck digs through.

At the very bottom are seven binder-clipped copies of books. Ones that Sam said he lost when Bobby's house went up in flames.

"Okay," Chuck grabs them. "So what are we doing tonight?"

" _Ooh-la-la_ date night," Charlie flutters her lashes and laughs at them.

Sam only smiles and leads Chuck away.

He locks the door when they get back to the bedroom.

"We have a little while? Or do we have to leave now?"

"We can leave in a bit," Sam shrugs.

"Good. Sit down."

Sam sits on the bed and Chuck sits at the opposite end, spreads the books out between them and points to the titles.

"Oh my god," comes Sam's inevitable raptures. "No way. NO way. Oh my god. Holy shit. I miss that paranoid old man so much."

Chuck smiles and sits back as Sam flips through each and clutches them to his chest at least a few times.

Until he drops them back to the sheets and crawls across everything to glomp Chuck.

"I got you presents," he says into Sam's chest.

"You're the best. You're amazing."

"I love you so much, Sam," he worms around enough to get his arms around him. "So fucking much. I think it's just growing. I think I need to be locked in here with you for the next day because I drove far away from you for a few hours and that's _so annoying_. That was not my brightest idea ever."

"I think it was a great idea. All except for the part where you disappeared. But you came back with presents. I had no idea."

"There's more cool stuff in those boxes, by the way. But I needed you to have these back."

Sam just keeps folding over him and holding him close.

"I'm gonna date you so hard," Sam says into his shoulder.

Chuck laughs.

«»

Sam doesn't make him dress up. He just lets him get a shirt that's not all dusty and holds his hand to lead him down to the garage.

They don't have a fancy dinner or anything. Just normal stuff, and then Sam drives to one of those fro-yo places.

When he pulls the car up he shrugs.

Chuck is mildly amused, yeah.

"You consider that our first date, don't you, sap?"

"You came to my fucking rescue. Well, you came because I asked, and _then_ you fed me because I couldn't eat anything solid without being in pain, and _then_ you saved my life." He snags Chuck's hand. "You saved me," he says again, "because that's what family's for."

Chuck still feels ridiculous, this time surrounded by kids and parents, but he gets ice cream for saving the life of the man who saved the world. Their fucked-up landmarks on their new little timeline together are some of his favorite things.

It's a hotel room for the night. At an actual hotel. Top floor, curtains pulled open so they can wake up in the sun. They make coffee before Chuck decides that, it may be Sam's date, but he wants to do the praising this time. He wants to be all over Sam's body. He feels like trying to match him. He doesn't feel like he's been equaling the amount of care he's been given.

Being reminded that he's capable of preserving such a huge and amazing and vital life is spinning him out in the same direction that brought him here: he wants to be Sam's best friend all over again. Wants to show him that he can see it all, he can see every wonderful thing that Sam does. He wants to be necessary to Sam's life, not just another human on this planet he saved.

When it comes right down to it, maybe it ends up as simple cock worship. But Sam spends so much time after just whispering with him in the sheets. Touching him and letting himself get touched back.

Sam asks if he's allowed to call Chuck his boyfriend or his partner when he talks to other people.

"You can demote me, I don't like the other thing."

"What will you call me?"

"I don't talk to other humans, it's pretty great."

"'Significant other' is kinda wordy. And it's kind of _our_ thing."

"I know. I'd just say, 'this is Sam, he saved your life.'"

"Please don't."

"This is Sammy Your Savior. But don't call him that, he's very sensitive about it."

"Like only two whole people are allowed to call me that and I only let you because neither of you will fucking stop. You'll just do it more."

"I do it because you're beautiful and I love you. Every time I say it, I'm thinking about how much I wanna be touching you."

Sam falls back into the sheets. Slaps his hands over his face. "Woah, stop. Now I'm thinking about every time you've said it."

"Sammy," he crawls on top of him.

"Holy shit. You should be illegal."

"Who are you introducing me to, anyway?"

Sam takes a moment and covers himself with Chuck, covers Chuck with a blanket. Hides under the blanket with him.

"Welcome to my shell. Do I have to talk to more strangers?"

"You don't have to. But people are gonna start coming around more."

"So you guys all plotted it out. With Jody and whoever?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think Charlie doesn't think she's ready for this, but. She's gonna have help. I don't know. It might take some time to convince Jody and the other girls to kinda consider the bunker home base. But Charlie's already had these big plans to straighten out the whole filing system and reorganize the library. And she's already digitizing everything and. I think you're right. If we start training them to hunt as safe as we know how. Maybe? I guess? I mean. We think this is still a lot to ask of them."

"So Jody is gonna come down?"

"Krissy first. Her and Josie and, um, that other kid. What's his name? Aiden."

"Okay. So Dean is gonna get pulled into the planning big time. And he's gonna have a bunch of women telling him what to do which, frankly, is a fucking relief because he's been locked inside his man-cave brain for way too long. I can't wait to watch him get ordered around by people who don't suffer his bullshit."

"Yeah. That, um. That's pretty cool. I'm a little concerned that they all like him better than me."

"They're gonna warm up to you. They just don't know you well enough yet. You've got a lotta layers," Chuck shrugs. "And I can always make up for it by adoring you more. I'm nowhere near my peak yet."

Sam holds Chuck's face in his hands. "My family."

"Yes. And we're gonna snap up more people for you so you guys aren't alone anymore. You're tired of being alone."

"So fucking tired of it. So tired of the endless hunting grind. It's so exhausting." Sam needs to inhale and exhale big. So they do that for a while. Calm breathing is a thing they like to share. Sam brings Chuck down to rest against him and pushes the blanket back.

"If it gets too loud for you, I need you to tell me. I think you're gonna do a lot of _enduring_ to help us make this work and that bothers me."

"I've gotta grow up sometime."

"You already have," Sam pets his head. "You need quiet more than you admit and more than you know, I think."

"I have a separate plan for us while this is happening. I came up with something I can help you with."

"I wondered why Charlie wasn't delegating things to me."

"She's got my back, that's why. I simply had to recognize her wisdom."

"She's like President Winchester now. It's like we held an election and she ran unopposed. What's your plan for us?"

Chuck sits up a little. "I'm gonna be your ghostwriter. I realize that has some exciting pun potential under the circumstances, so I have to insist we call me that."

"Ghostwriter," Sam laughs. "Got it."

"So, I've pretty much written up half your collective journals already. But the books could use a re-write to include stuff I wasn't clear on the first time around and like 700% more realistic language because I never dropped a single f-bomb when I was writing to keep the potential audience wide."

"Journals? Like." Sam puzzles this out. "Like dad's or Bobby's?"

"Yeah. Only fully-committed cases, plain language, glossaries and indexes, graphics. A true living history of Sam and Dean Winchester. Everything you've encountered, front-to-back. Everything you know and everything I can dig out of my skull to enhance it. And basically we just write our own textbooks based on you guys. That way the coming generations of hunters can understand what The Job is in real life. What it is functionally, on an everyday basis. And the majority of them won't be destined to be archangel vessels so their lives will probably be easier. But it'll help them to know what it's like for the hardest-hit guys in the game."

Sam blinks, taking this in.

"We transcribe John's and Bobby's after. We really grind it out on the computer and make it an enduring and referential set of texts," Chuck nods. "The encyclopedia of hunting, basically. As defined by the people who have had to deal with it the most."

Sam thinks about this for a while. Then presses up to kiss Chuck and draw him back down.

"I don't know about this, actually. I donno. It sounds. Kinda." Sam searches for words. "It sounds kinda big. Like we're putting ourselves at the top of the mountain."

"Charlie's not putting herself at the top of the mountain. She didn't write all the books in the library. She's just discovered a way to index and organize them and make it so that solutions to supernatural problems can progressively be calculated until, one day, the guessing will just be over. People will just be able to charge in and solve a monster problem with a decreasing amount of risk and an increasing amount of preparation. And she didn't put herself at the top of the mountain. She did the coding, she put in the work. So she ended up at the top of the mountain. You guys have done the hunting. You've done the work. Your flag is already up there."

"And you're gonna write out everything for me?"

"Well, we're gonna write out everything. You're gonna help me rework the first years of stuff so it's more accurate. Then the real writing starts. We have to revisit your hunts. We're gonna need Dean for the stuff that fell out of your memory."

"And what about your head? If we go digging in there, isn't nightmare stuff gonna pop out with it? Chuck, I don't want-"

"I know. Thanks. Seriously, thank you. But I think it'll be different. And if it does bite me, you'll be there to make me stop. We save each other."

Sam hugs him close. "Yes we fuckin' do."

"So we're gonna fix stuff at home. And we're all gonna set Dean back on both his feet again. So he can be okay. Because he's really, really worn out right now."

"Yeah. God. I feel so fucking shitty about it."

"You've done pretty much all you can. Sam, you've been setting him to rights for years, all by yourself. We're calling in the cavalry, now. We're gonna spread the work out and Dean will be better than ever."

"Holy shit. This is gonna be awesome, isn't it?"

"I'm thinking so, yeah."

«»

Charlie and Cas figure it out.

They gather everybody for a demonstration. With the right sigils carved into the lid of a box, she can set speakers inside, blasting music, shut and lock the box, and you can't hear anything within.

They know it works on metal, so she and Cas dented the spellwork into an old toolbox they found in the brick tower. It works perfectly.

Then comes the ambush.

"Since we're all in one place, family meeting," she announces. She shuts the toolbox back up and sits at the head of the great table.

Dean's the only one who didn't really know this was coming. He seems a bit confused, but he sits, as the other guys do.

"I have a plan. I think we should discuss how to go about it," she offers.

"Does this have something to do with the huge copy machine that truck dropped off outside the garage yesterday?" Dean asks, folding his arms and looking slightly amused.

"Yes!" She points, excited. "Also some other stuff. But let's start. Um. With us."

Charlie takes a moment to organize her thoughts.

"I really love you guys. All of you. And I think we're going through a sort of reorganization. And so. I think we should get some things out in the open. Oh man." She droops. "This is gonna sound uncool. But we're a family. And. We've been living all under the same roof - uh, pile of earth -" she laughs nervously, "for a couple months now. And. So. Here's the thing. It's new. None of our lives, now, are what they were a year ago. We're all _miles and miles_ away from who we were _two_ years ago. And I understand that some stuff is set in stone. But it's time to dump off the other shit." She straightens as she declares this.

Chuck knows what Dean's thinking already so the two of them are the only ones shifting in their seats, on edge. Cas is placid as a lake at sunrise. Sam is just. Happy.

Chuck smacks his thigh to get him to stop smiling or Dean's gonna think they're pulling some kinda prank on him.

Sam cools it down, shrugging slightly.

"We. I mean. We're not gonna stop-"

Charlie waves Dean off. "No. We're not gonna stop hunting. However," she looks directly at him, "as Winchesters, it's your responsibility-"

" _All_ our responsibility," Cas speaks up for the first time.

Charlie nods, "As Winchesters, it's our responsibility, not only to save people and take out the bad guys, but to recognize that just because we currently reign supreme or whatever, doesn't mean we're gonna be around to save the world forever."

She swallows and refocuses on Dean, who truly looks like he's waiting to get drawn out behind the barn and shot for his own good.

"Dean."

He doesn't respond. It's not even clear if he's breathing.

"You're gonna make it to 40 years old. If we have anything to say about it," she gestures at the rest of them, "you'll make it to 50. And 60. And you won't go down in battle. You're gonna stick around and be a part of our family, right? You wouldn't leave us hanging?"

She actually waits for his answer.

Dean looks around himself finally. And realizes no one else is enduring this direct line of questioning. He clears his throat. Shakes his head.

"You don't just go through life having already made the decision to leave us behind? To die off and abandon us?" she explicitly clarifies. And, again, waits for an answer.

They all stare at Dean. And he can't meet their eyes.

"What can we do to change your mind? I mean. Just tell us what you need from us to decide we're worth your time. What would make us worth sticking around for?" she challenges.

Dean's eyes skip back to her, appalled. "You guys, yeah. You're worth it. I mean. Yeah. _You're_ all worth it," he shrugs as if it's obvious.

"But you're not?" She jumps in before Sam can start protesting the way Dean clearly excluded himself.

She's building up to it. She doesn't know it but she's got it all under control already.

Chuck puts his left hand on Sam's thigh and curves it inward. He has to stay calm. They need one organizing voice. They need to pave over the old road for a better ride.

They wait for Dean.

"What do you want me to say?" he finally asks.

"That you love us enough to believe it when we tell you what you're worth to us," Charlie explains in plain English. "We want you to tell us what you need in order to start believing us. Or tell us why you can't."

"Why the fuck am I on the spot over here? What, is this a fucking intervention?"

"No," Charlie says. And she's only getting calmer. "We won't change anything about you unless there's something about yourself that you want help changing." She leaves the offer open.

"So this _is_ an intervention."

"Yep," she suddenly decides. "They already had mine. You come next. Then Cas is in the hot seat. Everybody gets a turn."

"What did you have a intervention on? There's nothing wrong with you," Dean scoffs.

Charlie takes a breath. "They told me I had to start throwing my weight around and drag you guys into the current century. They told me I had the power to play queen and I need to use it. So I am. Even if I didn't quite get it until just the past few minutes," she squints at him.

Dean shrugs and readjusts. He shrugs. Shrugs and stutters. "Well. Can't argue with that."

"Dean. We want you to live. We want you to stop fighting it. Stop digging around for your anger and trying to use it when you would rather just be happy. Stay with us. Decide that you're capable of more than just firing bullets into stuff."

"Like what?" He's still cross-armed, huddled into himself.

"It's our responsibility to make sure everyone has access to the things you've learned. It's our responsibility, now, to make sure that the hunters who are just starting out can handle jobs on their own." Charlie reaches toward him. Puts her hand, wide, down as close as she can to him. "You're gonna teach them. And help them. And. Go out on less hunts. So you can stay home with your family sometimes."

"My family _hunts_ ," he points out.

Charlie nods. "Which brings us to Cas." Just like that, she relieves Dean of the spotlight.

Cas straightens in his chair.

"You don't need your hand held, here, Cas. You're the biggest kid in the room," she nods. "So when are you gonna start telling us what you really think?"

Cas actually looks a little taken aback. "Um. I don't. I'm not human. I'm just. Following everyone's lead."

"Which includes staying neutral with Dean rather than deciding that there are things you want and things you need and speaking up and telling him? Telling us?"

Cas cocks his head. "My desires are hardly of paramount importance in this environment."

"Hold up," Dean jumps in turning and holding up a hand. "By 'this environment' are you talkin' about this house like it's a fucking rainforest you're camping in for a few weeks, or are you talking about this family?" he circles a finger to encompass them all. "And what the fuck is that, anyway? Are you deciding there's just shit you're not gonna tell me?"

Cas looks at them all, caught out. "I. I was." He stops, at a loss.

"So, two things," Charlie declares. "Cas, you have more experience and bare-bones knowledge than us. So we need you to speak up more. Also: you're Dean's family, and you have to help him because things are gonna change. And Lord knows Dean needs to be talked through big changes," she rolls her eyes.

"Hey," Dean protests. But he's the only one who does. Because it's true.

"So, we love you, too, Cas," she declares. "But if you wanna be a part of this family, we need to hear your fucking voice a little more."

Dean shoots Cas a look like, _We're gonna be talking about this later, pal_.

And that's good. That was kinda the goal.

"Hi, Chuck," Charlie says.

"Oh god," he claws at Sam's thigh. The instinct to declare that whatever it was, he didn't do it, is nearly overwhelming in the face of Charlie's potential disapproval.

Dean laughs at his outburst.

Charlie is quiet until her glare silences them all again.

Sam's big hand soothes over his, but he endures the squeezing.

"Stop telling Dean how he feels," Charlie requests. "We all know you have insight, but you don't know what's going on behind their door. And interpreting that and dealing with that? It's Cas's job now. He'll speak the hell up and do better with it. It's none of your fucking business."

"Copytenfour," he nods, automatic.

But she's not done with him.

"Chuck, you have like a full-blown anxiety disorder. And you need to realize that nobody blames you for that. What you've been through? You weren't built with a superbrain that's just magically capable of handling all that death and destruction and prophecy. So you have to start speaking up, too. When you can't handle stuff, we're supposed to be your support network to get you through the day without having an aneurism. Because if you drop dead, Sam will be a mess. So when he tells you to back off? Take a damn cue. Okay?"

Chuck nods. "Yeahyeahtotally."

"You're just agreeing so you don't have to be the center of attention," she points out. "Tell me what you just agreed to."

Um. "Uhh."

"About backing off."

"Right. When Sam tells me to. So I don't. Hurt my brain."

"Jesus," Dean rolls his eyes.

"Mr. Pot. Care to share your infinite fucking wisdom with Mr. Kettle?" Charlie shoots at Dean.

"Uhh," he accidentally echoes.

"Exactly. When _you're_ a recovering alcoholic maybe you'll have something constructive to add to the conversation. Until then, how about you lay off and handle your own shit? Chuck has only ever contributed to the family business, as far as I've seen. If he were siphoning resources, I could understand where you're coming from. But the only thing he's taking from you is Sam's undivided attention. Grow up."

Dean blinks.

She moves on. "So who here wants Sam to stop basing his self-worth on how many hunts he gets mortally wounded on?"

Everybody raises their hands except Sam who takes a minute to catch up to the turn in the conversation's direction.

"Well, Sam, that's four against one. Looks like you don't get to step in front of anymore knives. You can put your hands down."

"Who here thinks Sam needs another haircut?" Dean raises his hand on his own.

Charlie chucks a pencil at his head and he shuts up.

She's not done. "Another thing. Considering Dean treats you like his kid brother-" She pauses and waits for Dean to say something stupid, a yellow highlighter at the ready to toss at him if he does.

His grin sinks and he stays quiet.

"It's easy for us to forget that you're huge and scary. Because you're not scary to us. But you? You never forget. So you think it's weird and maybe frightening for them when you wanna be friends with the kids- Claire and Alex and them. So you back off and stay away from them and you seem to think you have to sit outside of the time we all spend together."

Sam shifts and looks down at Chuck and. Shit. He hates that Sam is always thinking that way. It's wonderful that he's so huge. He's had enough of sitting outside like he can't fit in the doorway. He's been doing that for so much of his life.

"She's saying it's not true," he says, keeping his grip tight on Sam's thigh. "Listen to what she's saying. They're not worried about you. They like you."

"They do," Charlie confirms. Shrugs. "Sometimes you talk over their heads. Sometimes you're imposing. And intense. But they understand. And if they need you to back off? They're old enough and smart enough to tell you so. You don't have to assume that from the start," she assures him.

Sam nods. But sinks a little in his chair. Dean shoots him a half-smile. Sam kinda returns it. Kind of. A little.

She shifts for a second. "So now we get to the rough stuff. You guys aren't going to agree with me on this. And it's gonna suck to hear it. But I need you to hear me out."

Charlie spreads her hands on the tabletop and stares at them for a moment.

"Sam. Dean. You aren't the end-all-be-all of this enterprise anymore. Cas can only do so much-" here she looks up to Castiel to confirm.

He nods.

"You guys aren't immortal. And we. Cas and Chuck and me. We want you guys to live. And to not die in pain. You guys. You want Claire and Alex and Krissy and them to be okay on their own, right? Whether you kick the bucket now or later?"

She looks to Sam who nods.  
She looks to Dean. He nods.

"You're gonna start taking all the rest of us on hunts. We're gonna hang out here and learn all we can. We're gonna try. REALLY HARD. Not to make enemies of other hunters. And to keep other newbies from dying."

She looks to Sam. He doesn't disagree.  
She looks to Dean. He hesitates.

"Dean. You may not agree that pulling people into hunting is the right thing to do. But the only other option is that you and Sam die closed off and alone and without anyone comparable to fill your place once you go."

Suddenly she jolts in her chair, remembering something.

"OH," she points at Sam. "No more sacrificing yourself for the world. You've had enough," she slices the air, "you're cut off."

"Fuckin' A," Chuck mumbles.

"What about him??" Sam points at Dean, indignant.

"I'm pretty sure his insides will actually fall away like pulled pork if he ever tries something that dumb again," she rolls her eyes. "Cas has been in charge of holding him together since the Mark came off. The next time he tries to turn himself into a weapon, he'll probably just have to be carried around in a slop bucket. It's regular old hunting for you, now, Dean."

Dean sighs and looks uncomfortable, like he has indigestion or something.

"That was a great visual," Chuck nods.

"So that's what's happening," Charlie declares. "We'll deal with your relapses as they arise because I know you guys can get really stuck in your ways. But it helps that you kinda have a-," she points back and forth between the two parties, "-buddy system."

"Buddy system," Dean scoffs.

"Just bros bein' bros, right? No funny business. Pals. Dudes who happen to be friends."

"We put that muffliato shit on every door in here, I'm gonna have to walk around with gloves and bleach," Sam glares at Dean and Cas.

Cas looks strangely pleased with himself. As does Dean.

"Yeah, gross. That's why I can't bring girls back home," Charlie sighs.

"That has nothing to do with the demon dungeon in the bunker full of maniacs, I'm sure," Chuck nods.

"So that's the law of the land. Now I wanna talk about what we're doing this week." She turns back to Cas. "Will you pretty please bring the giant copy machine upstairs?"

Cas nods.

"Thanks. So here's the thing. I have a mission, as you may know, to modernize all the information we can get our hands on. I think, though, before I get ahead of myself, that I should know exactly how much information we'll have, total. So, most the stuff came with the bunker, right?" She looks to Sam. "The books and files?"

"Like three quarters of it, yeah. We raided a few of Bobby's stashes. We haven't moved everything out of Rufus's cabin yet. We have the other stuff we've just picked up along the way. Dad had some storage facilities, but we haven't emptied those yet. Probably should before the payments run out. And Bobby still has places we don't even know about."

Dean points at Chuck. "He does, though."

Charlie perks. "How many more, Chuck?"

"Um." Everybody's staring at him again. He'd close his eyes and count. But that would be weird. "Like a lot. And a few. Um, well. A few places John never told them about."

He really hates that betrayed look that flashes across Dean's face. He hates John for it. Chuck shouldn't be the one telling his kids this shit.

"Are we talking ten places? More?" Charlie prompts.

Chuck frowns. "Maybe. Maybe ten."

"He has to think about it," Sam steps in. Under the table he pries Chuck's hand off his leg and presses it between both of his.

"Okay. So. Um. We discussed a game plan the other day. But this changes it. I want all that stuff. I think if we wanna play smart and train smart, we should gather all the knowledge we can, first. Well. Okay. This might get shaken up if we find a hunt to go on. But... okay. So, first: change of plan. I wanna gather all the information we can get our hands on. Let's go find these places and bring everything back. Then we just," she shrugs, "build the ultimate data center for all this information. Then we'll move on to phase two."

She seems to think for a second.

"Yes. Alright. So you four go empty those storage lockers. Bring the stuff back. I'll scan it, save it, index it, et cetera. Then we reorganize the library, the file room, the weapons lockers. If they come up, we deal with hunts in between. THEN we have the kids start coming around for hunting lessons." She nods to herself. "I'll call everybody back. First, I really want more swag. So go bring me boxes!" She smiles.

"There's one in Canada," Dean says. "He told me. You and Chuck are the only ones who can get in and out quick without looking suspicious."

"Let's do that last," Charlie says.

"You should probably do that one first," Cas objects. "Before either of you are caught on camera at the other facilities."

"No," she objects. "Um. I'd need time to get another fake passport," she cringes to admit it.

Sam clutches Chuck's hand. "Let's see if someone can do it for us. Put that one on hold."

Dean shrugs. "Fuck Canada, anyway."

"Okay. So we agree? We'll work on retrieving Bobby's stuff? By the time we get it all, CreepyCon will be coming up."

"I'm gonna go change Baby's oil," Dean announces. "Cas, get us packed?"

Sam tugs Chuck up. "We're gonna go start on a map to head out on. It might be a little while."

Dean shrugs. "We'll set up Charlie's scanner, too."

"And my work here is done," Charlie declares with a flourish. "The queen shall retire to the kitchen for a cool beverage while the knights prepare to ride."

Sam's dragging Chuck off before he can hear anything else in the main room.

He brings him back to the bedroom and locks them in.

Sam turns to him and says, "We're taking a nap." He starts rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

Chuck gives him a weird look. "I have to think. We have to pack."

"We're lying down," Sam turns him towards the bed.

Chuck shakes his head but he unbuckles his belt and tosses his jeans. Climbs in.

Sam comes around the other side.

After a few minutes Chuck has to tap on his arm. "Giant squid, you're cutting off my circulation, here."

"You're not going to Canada without me." Ah. The pervasive fear of Canada is not Dean-exclusive. Sam loosens his hold a little.

"Not going anywhere right now."

Sam kisses the back of his head for that.

"Sam, I need you to help me think."

"I know. I don't want you to go digging right at this moment."

Chuck takes a deep breath. "Thanks for understanding how much it sucks."

"You're gonna be drifting away from me for the rest of the day. Stay here with me just a few more minutes?"

"I don't mean to do that."

"Yeah. I know that, too. I get it. I'm happy the rest of them are finally getting what it's like for you. But I just-- just stay with me a few more minutes. I know she wants you to do this, but she doesn't understand that I won't get to be with you for the rest of the day," he sounds seriously distressed.

Chuck turns over to face Sam. He can touch Sam's face now and kiss his mouth and look to plant some kind of anchor in him, a line he can follow back to their room without filtering through John or Bobby until he can sleep it off.

He clears his throat. Closes his eyes. "Can you tell me about." He tries to pick something. "Tell me about when you bought me my coffeemaker."

Sam pulls his legs in closer. "You remember that first apartment. It had pretty much just boxes of beer in it. I think you had a toaster and a couch and that was basically it. So after I tossed the booze, I come back in and there you are, panicking. And you just. You looked like I'd just turned you upside-down and rattled you out. So I figured. I donno. Build up your life into something different."

"So you took me to the store," Chuck prompts him to go on and he does. He tells the whole story.

When he gets to the part about stealing the truck he goes a little quiet. "I was thinking that was probably it. We don't hear back from people too often. And when you knew that stupid window sticker was bothering me. I just. I didn't know I liked you yet. I just didn't wanna lose track of you. Because you knew things about me that I couldn't even say. Or put into words. And I think, even then, I was like, 'But what if we just made out and screwed around in the back seat? Would he call, then?'"

Chuck laughs and opens his eyes.

Sam's got a little smile but he still looks worried. Chuck tugs at some of his hair and Sam presses in to kiss him.

"Thanks for texting me oddball shit and not giving up on me."

"Thanks for texting back," Sam shrugs. "That coffee machine changed my life," he whispers.

"Oh, wow," Chuck closes his eyes again. "I'm not about to cry over my coffeemaker, stop it."

"I'd rather you do that than this," he feels Sam shift to hold his head. "You gonna go looking now?"

Chuck exhales deliberately. He thinks about getting into the truck with Sam. The red spray paint on the back window. He pictures them stealing the truck and driving. Arriving with other trucks, moving vans, overloaded sedans, at a storage block.

And he's Bobby, now, but he doesn't lose the truck, at least. He keeps something with him.

Sam has to let him go, eventually, to type notes on his phone, but he tries to stay pressed close. Some of the addresses don't make sense, but they're the best that Chuck can cobble together from the memories. If they can find 'a hill made out of 42 dogs,' they can reconstruct what he means, now.

Sam makes him take a break after he finds all of Bobby's hiding places he can.

He kisses his head and leaves the bed to get the laptop and start straightening out some of the word mysteries.

Chuck could still find his way back to the stolen truck from Bobby's head, but he loses it when he goes to John's memories. He doesn't want to be there and it's hard to maneuver around that.

He finds the two main stashes he never mentioned to Sam or Dean. Then he claws his way out of it. Doesn't wanna look further.

Sam writes it all down and plots a course between the buildings and facilities he can figure out. Then he comes back to bed, to crawl over Chuck and try to draw him back home.

It doesn't work very well.

Sam tries. He really tries. He yanks the sheets away and boxes Chuck in with his limbs. Kisses him and speaks into his skin.

At least he's not breathless and panicking and feeling the time John refractured his collar bone. That's one of his least favorites and it drifts in too often.

"I don't know what else to do," Sam finally laments, holding him close.

"Lemme sleep in the car. Go. Ask Dean about the ones you couldn't figure out. Look in the journal. Make the map. Then come back and get me. I'll pack," he babbles in a monotone. "You look really upset. I didn't want that to happen. I should be the one doing stuff for you. You always take care of me. I just wanna give you things. I just wanna give you everything. All the things. Things. I. I'll um. Pack. Lemme up."

Oh, god, he really looks sad. Sam puts a hand over his eyes. "You'll sleep. I'll pack. I'll wake you up when we're ready to go. I'm so proud of you. You did a really good job," he pets Chuck's head and gets up to pull the sheets back over him. "Come back to me when you wake up, okay?"

«»

He didn't even realize he had followed directions and gone to sleep until the world shifts under him.

"No. Nope. You're not carrying me to the car. They'll laugh at me for approximately forever."

Sam puts him back down.

Chuck sits up and rubs his eyes. Rubs his head. His numb, numb head.

"Hand me my pants," he slowly unwraps the tangle of sheets from around himself.

Sam finds his jeans for him. "Everything else is in the car. We're gonna take the Impala so we can rent a truck and have somebody drive it home."

"Rent," Chuck repeats blankly. Finally opens his eyes.

Sam kneels in front of him. Shrugs. "Steal, yeah. Just the four of us, though. Charlie's hanging back to start planning phase two."

"The queen doesn't do heavy lifting. That's our job. Delegation: she's doing it right. Got my glasses?"

"Yes."

"My blade?"

"Yeah."

"Is there coffee?"

"We'll stop for some."

"Where are we even going? I didn't understand what I saw."

"You said some stuff that has us thinking we start in California and work our way backwards, toward home."

Chuck yawns. He puts his hands on Sam's shoulders. "You have to tell me something."

"Yeah. I um. How far away are you right now?"

"I don't have a headache. That's always nice. I'll be better by dinner, maybe. Sorry. I can't. It takes a while to wade back. I can still smell the menthols he used to sneak. It's stuck in the roof of my mouth."

Sam cringes.

"Tell me, anyway. I can hear you."

"I'm thinking that... I'm thinking I should tell you to stay home," Sam rubs his thumbs over Chuck's right knee.

"Why?" Chuck has him scoot back so he can pull on his jeans.

"Because all that old stuff. What if you're in the room with all that crap and you're suddenly _in the room?_ "

"I'll be super in the room, I guess. Do you really want me to stay home?"

"No. But. I should want you to stay home. To protect your mind."

"Let's go on a treasure hunt, c'mon. Where are my shoes?"

"Hold on a second," Sam pulls him up and stands and leans down from what feels like higher than usual to kiss him.

"Who's driving first shift?"

"We are."

"Let's get going," he reaches up to kiss Sam one more time. "The knights ride. Or like. Maybe we're the new horsemen of the apocalypse or something. Sleepy, Dopey, Dumpy, and Fuck."

Sam snorts. "Fuck? So, you're Sleepy?"

"Cas is Sleepy, get it? And Dean is Dumpy. And I'm Dopey. And you're Fuck."

"Holy shit," Sam shakes his head. "I think it's too late for you. I think we bruised your brain."

«»

They set out after Dean's got the scanner in working order. It's not like Chuck will ever be allowed to drive the Impala, so he gets a lot of sleeping done on the road. After the first storage locker, they've got too much to fit in the trunk, so Dean and Cas break away to rip off a truck. They follow Sam driving the car to fucking Phoenix of all places and then hop right back out of Arizona as soon as possible. The third lock-up looks to be an entire room, bigger than the closet-sized ones before, so they don't break in yet.

It's Dean and Cas's steal, so they drive the first truckload back home.

This turns out to be perfect timing.

It leaves Sam and Chuck in Dallas, on their own, for a few days.

Chuck has seen the strange smiles. Sam's anticipation. He's noticed that Sam "runs out" for stuff when he's sleeping. So Chuck takes the first opportunity to do the same when Sam sneaks out one afternoon, Chuck faking snores in the middle of the motel mattress.

Sam has the benefit of having the car. Chuck has a more limited range.

What he wants, all he can think about wanting for Sam, is for him to be more comfortable than he looks right now. Sam's got these weird, boxy jackets that look too short for him.

Chuck looks like the biggest asshole alive waking into a big & tall store. But the staff is a lot less condescending and a lot more accommodating when he knows the exact measurements he's looking for and makes it clear that money is not an issue.

Charlie is very right. He has had the opportunity to bank the majority of his article checks, lately. He also sold a couple short stories. He can _spend money on his significant other_ , which is kind of a trip for him. He hasn't been able to do this since he stole cash from dad when he passed out watching baseball during his last summer at home.

He may not have transportation, but he has an exact idea of what he needs. He even finds decent jeans. Finding jeans for yourself is like winning the lottery. Finding ones long enough for Sam that he would actually like is a near-impossibility. He'll keep the receipt (it is kind of weird to think you can dress the person you're with), but he's got better-than-average insight into what Sam needs.

He gets back in enough time to actually sleep. Even after hiding the bags inexpertly. Hopefully Sam won't look in the bag under the to-be-washed pile.

He's pretty sure it's the day after tomorrow, but his timing is off. Sam wakes him up the next morning, too excited to contain himself. He gets coffee for him before he undresses Chuck, probably because he knew he'd be spending the better part of an hour blowing him before breakfast.

It's kind of fucking spectacular.

Sam keeps after him in the shower, kneeling to open Chuck up with his mouth, his tongue thick and unreal against him, in him. Begs to fuck him when he's hard again and whimpering against the tiles.

He finally gets himself ravished up against a wall. A slick, wet one, in defiance of all logic. Probably has something to do with Chuck being the consistency of cooked spaghetti. Sam's able to stick him to the wall and he loses it, loud and hard up into him, then gasps, twitches, watching close as he makes Chuck come a second time.

Chuck doesn't have to move himself anywhere for the rest of the day. Sam gets food and more coffee and curls him up in bed after this absolutely endless makeout session. Only to wake him up again, later, for presents.

Sam got him a laptop. He's been struggling with the same one for three years longer than it's wanted to be alive. And noise-cancelling headphones. Good ones. Which are something he's never thought he'd be able to afford. Sam definitely busted another of the fake cards on all this. Spoiled. Rotten.

Sam tries to convince him he could wear the headphones in bed as a kind of kinky thing, with his eyes covered.

"You mean so I can't see your bod _and_ I can't hear romantic stuff?"

Sam frowns considering it that way. "Good point. Speaking of which," he begins to strip his layers back off.

And as much as Chuck likes to watch that, he makes him stop. "Come here, first."

Sam crawls up and collects a deep kiss.

"Okay," Chuck says. "Now bring me the laundry bag."

Sam gives him a weird look but turns to do so eagerly. Either he found the bags or he senses presents.

It's the latter.

Before Chuck can even unearth the second shopping bag from the pile, Sam is all over him, pushing him back into the sheets and cradling his head and thanking him.

"You don't even know what it is," Chuck protests, smiling.

"You know what I do know?" Sam kisses him, "That you don't have fake money to spend. That you earned real money and you spent it on me. Real money. On _me_ ," he bumps their heads together. "And you didn't wanna do a six-month anniversary but you love me so you did it anyway. You thought of me and you bought stuff and I'm so in love with you."

"Okay, but calm down so we can actually see if it's stuff you want or not."

"I want it."

"Stop being a devoted puppy, I'm serious."

Sam only attacks his mouth again.

Chuck has to push him back and climb on top of him to get him to sit still.

He grabs the second bag out and dumps both bags on Sam's chest. He digs through them happily, still smiling.

Chuck sits back on Sam's thighs, crossing his arms and waiting, unsure.

Sam holds the stuff up at awkward angles where he's lying. "Lemme up," he finally says.

Chuck scoots away.

Sam lays it all out properly to inspect it. Then he tugs the first jacket on. Black and more form-fitting but with good pockets.

"How does it feel?" Chuck asks.

Sam considers. "I like this. I like it in black, too. I don't wear a lotta black."

"The green one is the same, but," he crawls over to grab the red one. "This is different."

"Oh niccce," he draws it out, taking off the black one and switching for the red. "Fuck. This one is. Shit. I like this one." He sits up straighter.

"I wanted- they're supposed to be more comfortable. You looked like you were just," he shrugs, "always kind of stiff and annoyed and always pulling on the sides. Leaning on your pockets."

Sam gives him a strange look. Like he's finally weirded out by Chuck's attention.

Chuck deflates.

"No, no," Sam says, calm. "I never said anything, is all. I guess I've been living with it so long I stopped noticing."

Chuck quits chewing at his thumbnail. "So. Good?"

"Yeah. Like really good. I never would have thought of this."

"Well. Good. I wanted you to have this. I wanted you to look less bunched up."

"Bunched up?" Sam shrugs in his jacket. Flexes. "I'm not bunched up. You're right. Huh," he wonders at the feeling. Then he lifts the other bag from where it fell. "Do I get more?" he pokes curiously through and- "Oh my god."

"Okay, that part's really weird. Buying jeans for somebody else is-"

"Shuuuut the fuck up." Sam is looking at the tags. "These are-" he stops again. Grabs the second pair. "I've never found these kinds again," he says in a whisper.

"So, not weird?"

Sam looks at him. Inspects him closely. "I um. I'd try them on right now. But I'd rather we both be naked?"

"Oh. I can understand that."

"I mean. I'm positive they'll be perfect. I just. I just really feel, overwhelmingly, like I'd rather be on your skin right now than wearing anything at all. Because you just gave me stuff and I'm starting to get really emotional because no one has ever done this kind of. I just. I didn't know I wanted this?"

He sounds a little lost, like he does sometimes. Like when they need to decide for themselves what's normal in this relationship instead of basing it on what civilians go through.

Chuck grabs the clothes out of his hands and unzips his jacket and comes forward to sit in his lap. He wraps his arms around Sam's neck and Sam clings to him, mouth pressed against the side of his head.

"Oh my god. I don't know if I thought about your gifts enough. I just wanted you to have all new stuff."

"Well you can pry that laptop from my cold, dead hands if you're reconsidering. I really need a new one. So thank you. Again. And again and again."

"Happy anniversary."

"Half-anniversary?"

"I guess. We shouldn't even be fucking around with conventional dates, I should just get to say that every two weeks."

"It's really important to me that you remember how much I love you, sap."

"Love the hell out of you. Can I take your clothes off now? I need you."

"I'm not entirely sure why I got dressed after the shower."

"Just so I could take it all off you later. You don't like to walk around naked, anyway, what are you even talking about?" he turns Chuck's head to kiss him.

"I would prefer if you would, but you don't, either."

"Well. I only have to be dressed to get us dinner later. So," he pulls Chuck's shirt off, "now. Let's do this."

Chuck moves to stand for himself and Sam glares. "Nobody said you were allowed to do that."

"'Kay. Take my pants off and put me back in the middle of the bed."

"Of course. Anything else?"

"Stay here with me."

Sam does as he's told.

«»

Chuck plays lookout for Sam as he breaks into the third storage locker. And he waves to Cas who drives the truck up to meet him. They have to pull this one in the dead of night and get a fence closed back up around the truck, quick. Dean hops out to help him move the gate.

He had a good feeling about the Dallas locker. And he wasn't entirely sure why, but he thought it might contain one of the books he wanted for the binding spell.

He was wrong.

It actually has _the exact book he needs_. It's a hole-punched copy bound with zip ties but it will do. Sam finds him on his knees, in a pile of cardboard, dazed, staring at the cover. Sam can't read it. Chuck can't either. But Bobby knew what it meant, so he knows, too.

Sam crouches next to him. "Where are you right now?"

"I'm fine."

Sam puts a hand to his back. "You're shaking. I need to take you outside."

"I'm fine," he starts packing the box back up. "I'm gonna carry this o-"

Sam pulls his hands away. "Remember when Charlie said you have to back off when I tell you? I'm worried. You have to back off."

Cas's hand is suddenly offered down beside him. "I'll carry it so you don't lose it," he points to the book. "Go outside, Chuck. Your heart rate is too high."

Sam hands the book up and pulls Chuck to his feet.

"You wanna sit in the car?"

"Yeah. In the back?" And, okay. He really is rattling out of his skin. Sam takes his pulse after sitting him down.

"I'm in Texas. It's Wednesday."

"'Kay. What did you see?"

"Just Bobby's stuff. Just. He spent a few weeks on that book. I need it." Holy shit, he's been in town with this book the whole time. Half a week he could have had access to this thing and. He needs it. Needs it now.

"You can have it back later. Not right now. Calm down and tell me-"

"I can pack the truck at least," Chuck says. "We have to be out of here soon. Lemme stack stuff."

Sam eyes him closely. "Okay."

Dean gives him a hand up into the truck bed, then hops down to bring more stuff out.

"This is like good old fashioned robbery," he says on one of his trips back. "It's kinda fun."

"That's probably why Bobby didn't leave you the keys, you shameless criminal."

Dean smiles. "Good ole Bobby, always lookin' out for us."

There's actual furniture toward the back of the unit. And unfamiliar family photos. They find a couple boxes of weapons that mean Bobby probably had to clear and store all the stuff a dead comrade left behind.

Cas wants to keep the couch and the rocking chair but they'll have to decide if they can actually keep it later. There's a power station too close to the building. If they swept the furniture for EMF it would give a false positive.

"Load it all up and we'll decide on the side of the road," Dean shrugs. "What we don't want, we can drop off near the university campus. It'll make some frat boy's day."

The weapons are pretty good. A few of them remarkable, even. And if they're gonna operate as some kind of hunting training academy, Chuck points out, they'll need it all.

They leave only cardboard and a box of toys none of them wanted to dig through. It was out of place, wedged between some old knives and spell tomes. That can only be a box full of tragedy.

Charlie calls when they're pulled over, getting an EMF reading on everything.

Dean hops down and walks over the grassy hill to answer.

They're gonna have to salt and burn the rocking chair, to Castiel's disappointment.

They keep the couch and dump the ping pong table, the other chairs, the short bureau, for someone else to adopt.

Cas clears a patch of dirt and ignites the chair with a touch. Chuck comes over with the salt so he can watch. Cas puts it out with a blink after the flames have gone from blue back to yellow.

Sam comes back trailing Dean.

"We gotta detour. Colorado. Charlie'll meet us there."

"Krissy, too," Dean smiles. "Vamp job. We get to see the kids."

Cas returns Chuck's nervous look. Neither of them have met her but they've heard glowing reports from Dean. Bragging, really. He likes her a lot.

It's nice to know Chuck isn't alone in preferring a small social circle. Cas doesn't have to deal with needless embarrassment and sweaty palms, though. He kind of just narrows his eyes above it all.

So they hit the road. North instead of east, as they'd been planning.

«»

Krissy is precisely Dean's kind of person. Quiet and skeptical and slightly mean. Too intuitive and snarky. She likes Cas instantly. Birds of a feather.

Josie might be one of Chuck's favorite people ever. He wants graphic novels about her leading a vamp-slaying team.

Aiden is okay. He doesn't listen very well. By the time the hunt is done, even Chuck has threatened to shut him the fuck up by force.

Charlie makes best friends with everybody. Or maybe it's more like she snaps up three more dedicated courtiers who follow her every suggestion.

She's magical whenever she wants to be.

Chuck is worn out by the end. He had to take part in a surprise decapitation, which always makes him unhappy. And he puts his bloody blade in Aiden's smarmy fucking face when he laughs at him for stumbling off and vomiting after.

Dean just barely turns him away at the last minute, Chuck has the kid backed into a tree.

"I'm not allowed to do that," he slaps Chuck on the back and whispers, reluctantly dragging him off. "So thanks."

Chuck rolls his eyes and trips over to Sam, who's climbing out of Charlie's car.

"I demand to be alone for twenty four fucking hours," he says into Sam's shoulder.

Sam kisses his neck and draws him away.

«»

They get to drive the truck back to Lebanon. They take their time so Sam can fulfill the 24 hour requirement. Chuck hides in Sam's room until he says he's gonna meet back up with Dean.

"You're not just leaving me here."

"You're stressed out and unhappy, Chuck. I don't want you to come."

Sam really does look annoyed. He looks like he could stand some time away from Chuck's self-induced stress. And the way he says it is kind of a smack in the face.

"Wow," Chuck dumps himself on the bed. "Fuck you."

"If you're gonna be unhappy with fucking everything I just don't understand the point of you coming."

"What? What have I been unhappy about? Besides Aiden. And even you despise the little bastard."

Sam ticks off on his fingers. "You only ever sleep in the car. The stuff in the storage lockers is fucking you up. You demanded to be alone for a full day. You hate this. I don't want you to come," he repeats.

Chuck sinks to a slouch. "Fine. Okay. Let's do whatever you want. Guess you've heard enough of my bullshit opinions."

Sam scrubs a hand down his face, drops the bag he'd grabbed, and shuts the bedroom door. They're alone, but it feels like the thing to do. "I don't." He stops. Shakes his head 

"Can I explain myself before we do this?"

Sam stares. Shrugs.

"Shit."

Sam comes to sit next to him. "Before we do what?"

"Before I fight you on this? Because I don't wanna get left here."

"We're not fighting."

"I'm not miserable."

"You are."

Chuck tosses his hands up. "You gonna tell me how I feel about everything?"

"You're miserable."

"Is it making you miserable to think that?"

"Ye- I." Sam breathes. "Yes."

"You _know_ why I sleep in the car. Because Dean and Cas are there."

"I! don't! care! They can spend the whole time talking but we can't?"

"Okay. Alright. Okay! Goddamnit. Shit. So I left you lonely. There's no excuse for that. That's something I fucked up and I'll do different. But I'm not getting all fucked up because of the stuff in the storage lockers."

"What about Dallas? You-"

"Found a book I need for that project you and I don't talk about. Do you want to talk about that or will you accept-"

"Was it. Was it just really important?" Sam asks, hesitant.

"Yeah. I think it's the most important thing I've found yet. I'm sorry that kinda threw me. It's. It would be like-"

"You don't have to tell me. It was important so. It was important. You just needed a minute."

"Yes. And I needed to be alone with you for 24 hours because I'd just had to hang out and work with and _trust_ a bunch of new people, which culminated in me having to save the bratty kid who proceeded to laugh at me for puking my guts out because feeling things snap under my own hands still isn't my favorite thing in the world. I needed a day alone with someone I know. Something I understand."

"Because you had to be with strangers and you didn't expect to have to do the violent part of the job. Because I told you that you wouldn't anymore," Sam dumps his head into his hands.

Chuck crowds up against him, props his chin on Sam's back. "Now for the more pathetic part. I'm begging you not to leave me here. Because I love you too much to be okay with being away from you. Even if I've made you miserable-by-association. I'm sorry. I'll change. I'll. Do stuff different somehow. I'll be better."

Sam doesn't move.  
His back is stiff. He's about to do something he doesn't wanna do. He's got that feel about him.

Chuck takes a breath.  
"Okay." He kisses Sam's shoulder over his shirts. "Okay, I will. I'll stay here," he whispers.

He doesn't move. He rubs Sam's back. Snakes both arms around him. Holds him tight.

"Just please be careful. I love you. I'm sorry. I'll. I'm used to being alone. Maybe I should be alone more sometimes. Maybe it'll make me less of a miserable dick."

Sam still doesn't move. His back is slightly less tense.

He didn't have to say it. And that's important.

Well. At least Chuck could spare him that.

"Sorry," he says again.

"I love you," Sam finally says.

Chuck remembers something Karen Singer said. A lesson he didn't bother to learn. He was too busy being taken care of. He was too content to let Sam glue him back together.

He should have remembered it's his job not to break Sam's heart. Not to make his life difficult. Not to make him sad.

Chuck wraps his hands around Sam's head and lifts it out of his hands. "Okay. Let's just go be adults. It's not the end of the world. I'll see you after the next few storage lockers."

Sam focuses on him.

"Seriously," Chuck affirms. "I'll see you. We'll text. You'll call. You know. Some combination of those. I shouldn't be out there. I'm not. I'm not a Winchester," he shrugs. "I should know my limits."

Sam doesn't say anything. Shakes his head and kisses him.

Chuck makes sure he's got clean stuff. Makes sure Sam's dumped Chuck's clothes out of the bags so they're not taking up room.

Sam puts on his new green jacket and shoulders his bags.

"I did good on that one," Chuck pokes at him. "You look awesome in that color," he smirks. Tries to smirk.

Sam still doesn't say anything. He pulls Chuck close and kisses his head and hugs him. Chuck's gonna remember that forever. The green of his eyes glowing because of the green of his jacket. The things Chuck gave him that made him happy. And fucking sad. The soft new fabric against his cheek. The awful stiffness in Sam's body.

"Am I walking you out to the truck?"

Sam finally clears his throat. "No. I got it. You've been holding off on writing. Guess you get to use your new laptop."

"Yeah. Thanks."

Sam nods. Looks down at his feet and says, "Okay," one last time. Kisses Chuck one last time.

Chuck lets him go.

He's gonna give it a good half hour before he closes himself in tight and locks the door and decides if he's sad enough to cry. That sounds like something that non-miserable people do. They show a little self-restraint when it comes to the weeping and wailing.

Yeah.

Or he could take a shower and just start now.

He pulls together piles of dirty laundry. Then he gives up and wanders up top. Charlie went to hang out with Krissy's gang.

He's well and truly alone for the first time in forever. He's not allowed to set timers. He sets an alarm for this time every day. So he'll know when it's been 24 and 48 and 72 and more hours.

He decides to go to the front door to make sure the truck's gone.

As he trudges up the stairs, he decides he can catch up on reading articles and comics. Text interesting, fun things to Sam.

Non-miserable things.

He pushes the heavy door and peeks up.

The truck is still there.

What? Why?

He props the door open and climbs a few of the stairs.

Sam really is in there. The truck isn't started.

He's just sitting inside. Hands on the wheel.

Sam must see movement out of the corner of his eye. He looks toward Chuck.

Chuck waves.

Then heads back down the stairs.

The truck still doesn't start. The door squeaks open, slams, and Chuck waits to head back into the bunker, hesitating at the handle.

Sam comes down the stairs.

"Here's the thing," he says, hands open down at his sides, "I wasn't exaggerating that time I said I love every miserable inch of you. And I think I'd rather be fucking buried alive than drive to goddamn Arkansas without you. Or sleep without you. Or be silent in a car for ten hours without you if that's all I get. And I don't know what would make you happiest but I'm full of shit because I'd rather be with you when you're bummed out for weeks on end than miss five minutes of opportunity to make you happy."

He shrugs.

"So. There's that. Please get in the truck with me."

Chuck thumbs at the door. "I can't. I don't have anything packed and I need you to come inside and have the most rip-roaring makeup sex with me."

Sam pockets the truck key and holds the door open for him.

Presses him against the wall when he moves to pass. Kisses the absolute fuck out of him.

They don't make it to the bedroom.

Chuck hasn't actually been truly, irredeemably miserable since before he lived in Colorado. Since he was still sure he'd be alone. He can pinpoint the exact moment for clarity. He's gonna mention that the next time he has access to oxygen.

«»

The sixth locker they hit is one of John's.

It's a little rough. Honestly, he's more worried about Dean going in there than himself. But Dean wouldn't worry about seeing a post-it note with John Winchester's handwriting and tasting whiskey for the rest of the day.

Dean wouldn't consider that a problem. But this time he's the first one to notice that it is for Chuck.

He hits Chuck on the shoulder. "Think I heard someone around the side. Go stand watch for a few, alright? Keep your cell phone out."

He can be kind of an amazing brother when he gives a shit.

The eighth clearly doesn't belong to Bobby anymore. It's full of someone else's kitchen equipment. The payments probably ran out and his shit was auctioned off.

"Or more likely confiscated as evidence. There were probably weapons in the locker. There have been in all the others," Cas points out.

Well, that's less of a problem. They check city and county records and find the evidence was shipped to a county storage facility seven months back. Sam and Dean put on their fed suits and fill out the paperwork to request a retrieval from the warehouse archive shelves just so it's all in an accessible location. Getting it out of the county facility is a little tougher. They wait until the employees leave for the night, the janitorial service comes and goes, then they have about four minutes to break in and get all the boxes from the front office before they hear sirens. It was only eleven boxes but one of them busts on the way out, trailing a stash of dried herbs and animal bones. They have to ditch it and run.

All four of them drive home after the close call, the truck packed to the rafters and a couple months hot at this point. They're gonna have to unload it and find a new one.

They push the door up at the entrance to the bunker and Charlie comes up to see what the haul looks like this time.

"Yeah. Wow. You know what? I'm gonna have to put this on hold. We need to unlock some of the rooms on the deeper levels if we wanna have enough space for everything. Or, I mean. We might have to start digitizing and selling some of the duplicates off. We might not be able to keep all the, um," she peeks into a box of what might actually just be junk parts from building pipe bombs, "uh. Knick-knacks," she concludes kindly.

"So," Cas cocks his head. "We're done for now?"

She pats him on the back. "Yeah, I think so, buddy."

"What about phase two?" Dean asks.

"We can start some of that. I think. Anyway. You guys have a different mission today," she smiles.

"We got a hunt?" Dean climbs up and starts passing boxes down.

"No. You've got a surprise. Let's bring the boxes in and I'll get it for you."

Their surprise hides in the kitchen eating all their cinnamon raisin bread until the work is done.

Then Sam and Chuck have to go ditch the truck themselves. Because Claire sneaks up and climbs on Cas's back.

They don't much mind.

"I just hope they take her out somewhere so we can shower together."

"Charlie installed muffliato on the shower room doors."

Sam considers this. "I'll still feel less skeevy if there's not a teenager lurking around."

"True."

«»

Dean, Cas, and Claire spend the week out in the scrubby woods. Cas has all the knowledge on proper technique and Dean's got a gift for aiming. They learn how to use Bobby's bow together and all kind of mellow out.

Claire and Cas mellow Dean out. It's really nice. He is genuinely calmer and more collected since seeing Krissy. While Claire is more Cas's friend, Dean still has both her and Charlie there and everybody _loves him_ and wants him to be _happy_. It gives him this unusual air of peace.

Chuck decides to skim some of the Supernatural books before the convention to prevent himself from mentioning something that wasn't in them. Just a bit of a refresher. He glances through the ones posted online, as well, less familiar with those than the earlier, published works. It's a smart move. He hadn't realized he'd started filling in the gaps in the Soulless Sam story himself until he was sitting there scrolling through a PDF like, _yeah, actually, that's not gonna be anywhere in here_. He has to refrain from saying anything about that.

Charlie determines the purpose of all the rooms they've found in the bunker so far. Which can be used for file storage, which need shelves added, which can have bunks and living spaces added to them. So she and Sam spend a while looking for secret passages and hidden doors.

They get lost behind a wall for three hours. They find some horrific jars of samples they want to take to a hazardous waste facility. They decide some room can be made up in the brick tower.

They have less than a month until the convention. Claire abandons Dean and Cas when they start talking about maybe cosplaying.

She wanders until she finds Chuck.

"They're doing something painfully dorky," she reports. "I was getting mad secondhand embarrassment. Had to ditch out. You seen Charlie?"

"She's exploring the creepy basement levels with Sam. I have no inclination to follow. All I can picture them finding is horrific old experiments. Or. Spiders."

"Hmm," she drops into a chair next to him. "Yeah, fuck that."

Chuck finishes the paragraph he was on but he can't really write with a critical teenage audience present.

When he glances over, she is, indeed, assessing him critically.

"Do you have superpowers?" she asks. "Dean says you're a weirdo and that Sam used to hook up with demons and stuff so you're his type."

"You know, that 'mouths of babes' shit only applies to cute little kids, not junior maniac Winchester initiates."

She smirks. "So you are a freak. Just checking. What kind?"

"I um. Used to be a freak."

"Like Alex?"

"She used to be a fre- she used to be a. Something else?"

"Her family was all vampires. They made her one but she got cured."

Chuck cringes. He's heard about the cure. It's gross. Brutal. "No, I. I was something else."

She kicks her feet over the arm rest. "You're not gonna tell me what?"

He sets his glasses aside and sits back. "A prophet."

"Like a psychic?"

"Those are different things."

She waits for an explanation.

Chuck scratches his head and looks for one. "Psychics have to go looking for the answers. They can't tell the future. They have to look in your head or ask the surrounding spirits what's up. I didn't have to do that. They told me what was. They made me see everything. Past, present, future. I didn't ask for it. Or try to make it happen. I was assigned to it. And I didn't want it."

She looks bothered. "Like people who are angel-compatible. Who have the right blood."

Chuck sighs. "Yeah kinda." He slumps back in the huge chair. "Just without anybody asking your consent."

"Oh my god." Her lips curl in disgust. She tucks into the chair. It's a long moment of her looking away. "I'm sorry," she finally says. "Who-?"

He shakes his head. "Heaven or whoever."

"I'm sorry," she repeats, shaking her head.

He shrugs. "Don't have it anymore. I got... cured." He spares the details.

"Dean also said you and Sam-"

"He doesn't know what he's talking about."

She cocks an eyebrow. "About you getting married?"

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Chuck repeats.

"So I don't get to be flower girl?" she teases.

"No, you don't get to get underage trashed at an open-bar reception," he rolls his eyes.

"Does Sam wanna get-"

"Why would you think I'd actually have this conversation with you?"

"Sam says you write books," she changes tack.

"Not so much anymore. I write other stuff."

"Can I read some?"

Chuck tosses an arm to point at the library shelves where Charlie stuffed the used copies of the books.

She shakes her head. "No way."

"I hardly have to convince you with all these assholes running around to confirm it," he flutters his hand at the bunker in general and crosses his arms.

She gets up to go look at the shelves.

"Read 'Route 666' first. Then go read passages of it out loud to Dean until he slinks out of the room quietly."

"Why?"

"Oh, you'll see. Not my best work, but guaranteed to make him nervous."

"Wait," she points with one of the books in her hand. "The prophet shit, that was real life shit and you put it in books?"

"I didn't know it was real," he shrugs.

"Wow. That's fucked up."

"I didn't know! I didn't have a choice!"

"Okay, dude. Still."

Chuck rubs his eyes.

"Am I annoying you?"

"No." Yes.

"So, what, these are like pre- _Twilight_ vampire books or something?"

"I. I don't. Please don't call them that."

"Oh. Touchy about your art," she wiggles her fingers and picks up another. "'Mystery Spot'? Really?"

Holy shit. "That's really one of the roughest ones, so maybe fucking put it down-"

"What, is it bloody? It sounds cheesy."

His teeth grind.

"Chuck?"

He looks up to see Sam coming in wearing a worried expression.

Chuck deflates.

Fuck. "Nevermind. I didn't mean to snap at you. Sorry, Claire," he sinks lower in his chair.

She laughs. "I've been yelled at before. That was hardly 'snapping.'"

Sam comes up and shuts Chuck's laptop. Picks it up. Offers his hand. Charlie comes in babbling about some movie or other and ignoring everyone but Claire.

Sam takes Chuck upstairs and outside and they sit down next to Chuck's tree. He hands the laptop back over.

Chuck takes a deep breath and Sam sits with him while he gets to a proper stopping point in his story.

"I didn't mean to yell or whatever," he says, closing the laptop again.

"You weren't that loud. I think I could just tell it was about to happen. You have a very low threshold for stress and we've been apart all morning."

"So I guess I'm really growing into this codependence thing. Great."

Sam smiles and shakes his head and moves around to sit in front of Chuck.

"I'm a tool- not like a _tool_ tool-- I mean, seriously, something you can _use_ that, it turns out, you've been needing to make your life easier. I happen to like that about myself. So it's a good thing. It keeps us on an even keel. Because I use you as a tool to come back to myself when my temper or something starts sending me off the rails."

He clears his throat.

"Or when I start to feel fucked up. I know I can tell you it's happening and you'll pull it apart and tell me why."

Chuck nods.

The same way Sam must have known Chuck was getting agitated, he knows what Sam's about to say.

"I need to tell you something."

Chuck nods again. He doesn't let Sam start, however, until he's reached way up and pulled Sam's head down. He kisses over his hair twice. Sam's shoulders drop a little.

"I have to. I was. I was thinking about something you said once. On the phone. That you don't know how this is gonna work when we're just together. When it's just us being 'stuck' together and not being stupidly in love anymore."

Chuck nods at this, too. He recalls the conversation. He also remembers Sam insisting that not everyone ends up like that.

"I was thinking. I was wondering if you think you feel that coming on."

"This direction of this particular conversation is 100% guaranteed to scare the absolute shit out of me, you have to realize that," Chuck says in all seriousness. "Because I don't feel that way even a little bit. In fact, I feel so fucking bonkers over you on an everyday basis that I'm worried you think it's tiresome."

He only has to hold his breath long enough for Sam to take a deep one and lift his head again. "Holy fuck. I was." He smiles, still worried, cautiously optimistic. Shakes his head. "I was so worried you started to feel like that after the vamp hunt."

"No." He shakes his head and pulls at Sam's neck until he gets the message. Lays down in the leaves and grass and puts his head on Chuck's unoccupied knee so he can scritch his scalp. "No. That was. I thought we were reaching a point where I had to be more grown-up and fucking pack my shit in a little. I thought what you were saying meant that I had to stop wanting to be so close to you 24/7. But if that hasn't changed for you, it hasn't changed for me."

"I wanna tell you I'm in love with you for the first time all over again," Sam says, breath warm through the fabric of Chuck's jeans. "I don't want that to change and. As much as I like that all these people are gonna be around more. I'm."

He stops. He takes Chuck's hand off his head and kisses it.

"I'm not crazy about how we drift apart when they're here. I have these huge moments where I'm completely annoyed that I can't be sappy with you and that no one takes care of you the right way except me. I could hear the strain in your voice from downstairs in the bedroom and I got. I felt the, like, _caveman_ rising in me and I had to take you out of there to protect your head. It's totally ridiculous-"

"I don't give a shit. I would. not. change. a. thing," Chuck is quick to insist. "That's like a dream come true. I can't believe you feel that way about me. That's some romance novel shit. That's some Fabio Harlequin shit. You're ridiculous. You fucked me good in a shower, but you couldn't do it against a dry, stable wall. Sammy, I hate to say this, 'cause I know it's a sensitive subject, but you're a fucking alien. You're MY alien. I want you to do embarrassing things to me in public like kiss my nose and introduce me as your significant other and try to make out with me in the line at the grocery store and do the escorting-me-by-the-hand thing when I get out of the car. If literally everyone knew that the guy who saved the planet wanted to take me on ridiculous ice cream dates, I would think really hard about posing for tabloid pictures and bragging about it. I would be crippled by anxiety, I mean, I wouldn't do it, but I'd seriously consider it. I love it when you rescue the both of us from inner turmoil. You physically cannot stop being a superhero, can you?"

"Are you ever going to find something wrong with me? I'm trying my best to prove I'm human and all you do-"

"You're the best human ever. How are you supposed to fucking help it if your flaws are all in your past? Honey, I can't criticize you if you insist on being the healthiest thing in my life," he puts his hands to either side of Sam's face.

"Did you just call me 'honey'?"

"I. I. Wh. No. I didn't?"

"You totally did. I love you."

"I love you, too. Maybe I got too hardcore sappy, there."

"No such thing," Sam objects.

"To address your original concern? I don't know if we're ever gonna hit the stage where we only ever tolerate each other. I mean, at least on my end, I still have these hourly moments of unreality. Sam Winchester is alive. He liked me enough to save me. He stuck around. He loves me. He keeps me in his space. Mightiest miracle of them all: Just when I think he's getting sick of me, he up and confesses that he just doesn't want us to float away from each other. It turns out we both like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain."

"I might be a little bit into yoga."

"Not enough to dissuade me," he kisses Sam's head.

"Upside-down Spiderman kiss," Sam says. So Chuck tries it out.

"See, that's weird. You get like a face full of my beard."

"Yeah, weird," Sam agrees. "Do it again anyway."

So they do.

"We're not coordinated enough for that," Sam decides and sits up to kiss him the old-fashioned way.

"Thanks. It's pathetic that you had to save me from a teenager."

"I have to hide you from the general public pretty often. I'm fine with it. It's how I get you alone. Wanna go back inside under the pretense of a nap and actually screw around?"

"Well, yeah. I think we should rewrite our past again. I think you should tell me how it would've been if we made out after I fixed your tie."

"Holy shit," Sam grabs his head to keep him close. "I knew you were doing that on purpose. I was so hot for you. I was so fucking sure when you did that."

"I'll do it right this time."

"I never gave that tie back. I wear it all the time."

"I know. We share stuff now, anyway."

"Seriously. Let's go," Sam stands and takes the laptop, draws Chuck up by the hand.

"Can I request something?"

"Of course," Sam leads the way back inside, holds the door for him.

"Can we, um. Can we."

Sam pauses at the top of the stairs and gets him to hold up. He won't finish his thought aloud. It sounds like too much. "Let's both decide," Sam prompts him.

Chuck considers a moment. "Can we look at like. Part-time places?"

"Like an apartment across town?"

Chuck frowns.

"We should, I think. I mean. Things have been a lot better. But that only means Dean's getting on my nerves in other ways."

"Like what?"

"I'll tell you later. Let's think about that, yeah. We won't _plan on it_ , but we can think about it." Sam looks around. Looks down at Chuck. "I really still miss windows."

«»

Dean plans better brother days. This weekend he wants to go lay his hands on deadly weapons.

Sam can't deny that sounds like fun.

But it's a gun show at a fairground that's far enough, they won't make it home in one day.

Sam actually attempts to prepare him for it. He makes Chuck come twice the night before and again first thing in the morning. Chuck's wrung out enough to sleep until lunch. But then he has the whole empty night ahead of him.

He tosses his baseball bat, swings it around. He kinda wishes he had something to hit.

It's a passing fancy. He goes to find the book that Cas has been translating for him.

Cas and Charlie left a note saying they'd be back later.

It's empty in the bunker. Quiet.

This is officially his first time being left completely alone since.

Geeze. Kansas City.

He makes coffee. Some of the fancy stuff Sam got him when they were in California. It reminds Chuck that he'd like to find more birthday presents for him. He may have waited too long. He'll pause his reading every so often to shop online.

The kitchen still smells like the bacon and french toast Dean made for everybody the night before. He decides to set up shop in there. It will be easier to remember to take breaks.

Cas's notes are shoved between each page of the paper copy of the book. Charlie already made a full duplicate for him and scanned it in. The ink is a little faded and that's annoying.

He writes beside Cas's notes, little things he skims off Bobby's memory of the book.

And it only takes an hour to realize what it is.

To realize that he knows, now. That he's sure.

It's not even that ancient. It's just a really amazing loophole that the established rules of heaven have no way of closing. A sort of exchange of consent that sets what 'occupation' means and gives the soul walls and a door to knock on. Like saving a document to a newer version with more security or something. And it's not witchcraft, per se, it's more like a ceremony.

He's not positive with only three quarters of Cas's notes here, but.

He's pretty sure it _is_ a ceremony.

He needs the rest of Cas's notes and maybe some stuff from around the same time to compare it to. And at the point where he can't look at it anymore, can't stand that he can't juice more from his memory, the phone finally rings.

"Hermit crab speaking."

"Oh. Giant squid reporting in."

"That was really dorky of us."

"Eh. I like it. How many gallons are you on?"

"Seawater?"

"Coffee, dork."

"Oh. Two. Maybe two and a half. I'm taking it easy. How many shiny, new guns do you have?"

"Maaaaybe three. They're. Um. Really fucking nice."

"Just couldn't decide on the right look? And Dean told you to get all three because you could mix-and-match with different outfits?"

"Something like that. Dean thinks he's Daryl Dixon. He got a crossbow."

"You're shitting me."

"He tried to blame it on Claire and everything. He tried to blame it on you. Tried to blame it on Bobby. But let's be real: he bought a fucking crossbow because of a tv show."

"I feel more comfortable, now, knowing he out-dorked us."

"Does that mean you'll be cool with me getting real soppy in a minute?"

"I'm used to wading through it. You called to tell me to go to bed, didn't you?"

"Well, I want you to lay down with me. I know it's early, but he's out in the car, on the phone, and I only have so much time. We're sharing a room."

"Haven't done that in a while," Chuck comments as he starts gathering his stuff.

"It's um. You know what? I don't miss it. We hang out a lot. And. I guess I don't need it to be 24 hours a day anymore."

"You get to drink tonight, at least," Chuck points out.

Sam 'uh's and 'um's a few times.

"You do know that's actually okay, right? You don't have to be sober with me, Sam."

"Um," Sam says one more time, "I donno. We'll see. Are you heading to bed?"

"I'm almost there. I'm not really that tired yet."

"Just lay down with me. Just let me have a few minutes."

Chuck locks the door behind himself and drops his stuff off on the dresser.

"Love you. Miss you," Sam says.

"It's only been like six hours."

"I took off after you went back to sleep. It's been twelve hours. You're a really good sleeper, sweetheart."

Chuck shuffles the sheets around. But he just drops down and gets comfortable, he doesn't anticipate that he'll be able to doze off.

"I'm gonna tell you something," Sam says. Chuck likes when it isn't phrased like a question. Being there to hear these things, to share Sam's burdens -- that's exactly what Chuck's job is.

"I think you're gonna get sick of me sometimes," Sam says, "so I hold back."

"Wow. How dare you. You mean to say I could have been suffocating in your love instead of merely drowning in it? Where do you get off, pal?"

Thankfully Sam's laugh is calm. "I could easily be as protective and overbearing as Dean. I think it runs in the family. Like the caveman thing times five."

"Hey, Sam? I'm not gonna get sick of you. You also don't need to be overprotective to keep me around. We're doing a pretty good job of sticking to the middle. If you weren't dead criminals living in a hole in the ground, we might even be considered healthy."

Sam takes a deep breath. "I'm fucking seriously sorry. But you're gonna have to tell me that again. You're gonna have to tell me when I can do more and when I need to back off. And you're gonna have to remind me more than once."

"Well. I've been telling you so far."

"You've only pushed me away from you once. I want that to be the only time ever."

"Sam. We've talked about this. You're not out of control. You're fuckin' fine. Is there some reason you waited until you were away from me to try to pull this shit?"

"What do you mean?" he sounds slightly frazzled. "Pull what shit?"

"I donno. Sounds kinda like you had to get me to tell you that you're okay over the phone instead of in person. Did you think you did something that crossed the line?"

Sam's silent for a minute.

For so long that Chuck has to check, "You still-"

"Yeah. I'm. I, uh. Okay, guess I need to tell you. Um. That I don't. Okay." He restarts: "I know you've been working on it for me so we can all be in one place. So we can all live in the bunker and be a big, happy, hunter family. And you moved us there after the first two months. And it was good, it was a good move. You were right. We're doing just fine there." He clears his throat. "However. I don't wanna live in the bunker forever. Um. I can picture us splitting time between the bunker and an apartment or something. Like the idea you had. But. Not forever. Not for the rest of our lives. Eventually I. Eventually I want a place just with you. Just you, Chuck. I guess. I guess the living-on-top-of-each-other thing isn't what I imagined. And there's only five of us. But the idea of us being, like, Hunter's Hogwarts? Man, I donno. I guess it sounds innovative. Important. But. Being there full-time? With more and more people?"

"I have to make sure that this isn't just coming from the part of you that knows I want that," Chuck has to check. "I have to make sure you're not just absorbing that from me. Because you've had this idea your whole life that one day you'd be with everybody-"

"No," Sam says on a breath. "See, that's why I-- I knew you were gonna think that. But. Chuck. It took me seeing through you to understand. I feel that way a lot, too. I mean, you're right. I did always think that I'd grow up and get to collect friends and be surrounded by people. It's just. I'm not Dean. This whole thing where he stabilizes himself the more people are there to look out for him, it doesn't mean the same thing to me. The things that make Dean stable might end up making me unstable. And I know for sure they'll make you unstable which hurts me at, like, _my center_. It makes me one lung short. I can't help but need to maintain some peace for you because suddenly you're my. My support. My home. I miss you so much."

"Sammy, it's seriously just a few hours," but the way he says it still has Chuck curling on his side, closing his eyes to absorb Sam's voice better.

"I know. It doesn't matter. I had to grow this old without you. I got fucking cheated. I don't want you to slip off in the night or get sick of me or pack up and leave me-"

"Where the hell is this coming from?"

"I have to take the stress out of your life. I shouldn't feel like I'm skipping out on my job as significant other because I can't be there to tell you why your back shouldn't be tense."

"Sam," Chuck takes a steadying breath into the pillow. The scent of their soap and the stupid shampoo Sam found that's actually kinda perfect for Chuck's hair (because he's some kind of fucking professional, no joke). "You know. That sounds a lot like you're trying to give stuff up instead of letting me grow into it. I can change, Sam. I promise. I can be okay with this."

"I'm not saying you can't. I'm saying that maybe I already changed. I'm saying that my own tolerance has been tested and I've grown up and realized that, yes, you're right: it will be cool to teach people. It will be cool to write down all we know. But I guess I don't wanna play babysitter in the bunker. Now that Charlie's taking the reins and we're a little more free from the heavy-hitting decisions, I'm not just in the passenger seat. I'm in the back. I'm getting chauffeured and I like it."

Chuck laughs. "And Dean's still driving. Because he loves driving."

"He loves it all. He loves being in the car. He loves the mayhem. He loves picking up people and cooking for them and being their dad. Now that he's realized he doesn't have to be _Dad_ to be a dad, I mean. He's thrilled."

And that really is a great image. Dean discovering he can be that without being John. It's fucking beautiful. "I'm kinda proud of him," Chuck admits.

"So am I. God. Believe me. So am I. And it turns out that Dean's okay with that because Cas is there. Finally. To remind him that he's not gonna end up alone. So. I can finally unstick us a little bit and."

"... Cling to me?" Chuck guesses.

"Well. You okay with that?"

"Yeah. Of course. Yes."

"I mean, it's not like I'm giving it all up. I'd just like to stop breaking my arm so often. There's only so much Cas can do and it's got this permanent 'tick' now."

"Yeah, I started hearing it when we were lifting all those boxes."

"See? So. Yeah. I mean. Just being able to do the job, but not to the extent where I have to make that same decision every goddamn month: me, my brother, or the world? Who has to die this week?"

Chuck considers this for a while. "As long as we don't shut ourselves away. That's a really easy thing for me to do."

"I'll drag you out as often as you can stand it. But. Not more than that. Because it's okay not to be wild about hanging out with people. It's okay to be _you_ , Chuck. I don't want you to think it's not. I like your essentials. I just heard the car door," he adds, wry. "Shit."

"Be sappy real quick."

"I love you. We want the same things more and more and that's kinda cool. We're pretty good at this. I love you," he repeats.

"Love you, too. What do you want for your birthday?"

"You wanna start doing birthdays?"

"Yeah," he can hear the motel room door open on the other end. "Just think about something you want. I already know what stuff you need, but it should be a mix of the two. Want and need."

"I'll think about it," Sam sighs.

"Okay. Let Dean drag you to a bar."

There's Dean's voice, muffled in the background. "Oh. Dean says hang up, Cas needs to call and see if you want something picked up for dinner."

"'Kay. Love you. See you tomorrow night."

"Yeah. You, too. Bye."

Cas rings in just a couple minutes later, asking what he wants from the Chinese place.

"Pass the phone to Charlie because you're not gonna get this."

"I can order food. I've been told I do it well," Cas says, indignant.

"Okaaay. I want something spicy like 'woah' not spicy like 'ow,' but kinda like 'ow' just not too bad."

Cas is silent for a moment. "On a scale from one to five animated chili pepper icons?"

Chuck sighs. "Like three, maybe two at least."

"Beef, chicken, or shrimp?"

"Beef."

"Rice or noodles?"

"Rice."

"I've determined that you have two options based on this criteria."

"Surprise me."

"That can be done," Cas says, like, _challenge accepted_.

«»

Chuck accidentally takes a really dramatic tumble into Dean's head.

One minute he's (guiltily) doing the dishes, scrubbing a sauce pan, and the next he's 13 years old, stealing boxes of mac n' cheese and making dinner for little Sammy.

It's not the kind of thing where he falls down with the vapors or something. He just ends up stifled behind a curtain all day and his body has to operate on autopilot.

Charlie seems to understand that he's not _there_ when they're speaking and when Cas notices, he ushers him around and sits him in front of the television. Chuck can hear him explaining the details to Charlie in the next room. Like he's some goddamn mental patient just suddenly gone blank and-

So. Okay. Maybe this is a completely dissociative event and, in fact, qualifies as a decidedly unhealthy condition.

They're kind enough to retrieve him for lunch and lure him to the table for dinner, but.

He just can't. He doesn't.

He isn't shaking it off. Every movement of his hands on the tv remote or the fork or his glass of water feels like something he did just six seconds previous and he isn't exactly sure he's actually moving forward through time. With six seconds forward and six back, is he, in fact, simply standing still?

Cas leaves a _How It's Made_ marathon on and that's nice. Everything explained in very simple, singular steps. Something getting produced out of nothing. It at least contributes to the muffled calm he's drifting in.

Unfortunately, this means that, when Sam and Dean come home, Chuck is still very much checked out. He has no idea what time it is. It felt kind of like the afternoon. Of course, it felt kind of like the afternoon all day, maybe. Sam wasn't supposed to be home until after ten at night.

Dean appears and he's chewing on some kind of sticky candy. He points with the gnawed end of it. "What's his deal?"

Cas drifts in, too. "Chuck, Sam's here."

He knows he's blinking at Cas and he knows what Cas means, he just doesn't want to stand up and walk because sometimes it's like going backwards on a moving sidewalk.

"Wow, shit," Dean frowns, like, oops, and dips right out of the room, tugging Cas away. It's kinda funny, actually.

Charlie comes into the room with Sam and takes the remote from him to turn the television off.

"How long has he been like this?"

"I donno. I saw him this morning at like nine. Then the next time I talked to him, it musta been around lunch? He was. Just. I donno. Cas said it's prophet stuff. He didn't wanna pry. He said Chuck just gets buried there sometimes. We thought, you know. Keep him in a quiet place and let him," she shrugs, at a loss.

Chuck's staring at her dead-on. He supposes it would be more polite not to. But Sam is right next to her, only he's at the wrong height.

No.

He's at the right height. This is the correct version of Sam. Present-day. This is the Sam who knows him.

Chuck sighs. "I'm here. I'm totally here. How are you?"

"Jesus shit," Sam says, sounding horrified.

"Um. Can we help him?" Charlie asks. "Somehow?"

"I haven't seen it this bad in a while. I don't think he remembers the last time it happened. I'll um. Come find you if I need help. But. I don't think there's much to do except have him sleep it off."

Charlie puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. "I kinda understand why he was drinking."

Sam's glare seems like a physical thing slung down at her.

It's jarring to watch.

She puts a hand over her mouth and says, muffled, "I didn't just say that. Goodnight." And beats a hasty retreat. She pops back out around the corner of a wall. "I mean, yeah, call me if you need me, bye."

And disappears again.

"She kind of understands why I was drinking," Chuck shrugs. "It's nice to be understood."

"I'm not gonna push this with you right now," Sam comes to sit next to him on the couch, "but I understood the drinking. I still understand it. I know why you thought it worked. But it didn't work. And I have no idea how often this used to happen to you. But it doesn't happen so much anymore and I wanna keep it to a minimum. So the not-drinking works, too. And that's what we're sticking with."

He doesn't remember Sam taking his hand but there it is, wrapped in both of Sam's huge paws.

"You're kinda cold compared to how you normally are," he observes.

"The windows were open in the car and I'm a little freaked out right now. So." Sam shrugs.

Chuck blinks. "This isn't worth freaking out over. I'm right here. I can hear you. I just heard myself say the word 'hear' six or eight times but the echo is normal at this point."

"Holy shit."

"Show me your new guns. How was your trip?"

"For the first time ever, I actually want you to stop talking."

Chuck nods. Sure, okay.

"Let's go- um. Do you wanna go to the bedroom?"

"Yeah. Do you have to get your stuff?"

"I brought it all there, first. I thought you'd be there," he stands and tugs. "Did they make you eat?"

"Like seven times. Like so many times. I hate mac n' cheese, have I ever told you that? When you cut up the hot dogs and put it in."

Sam takes a deep breath. "No hot dogs. Yeah. I can see why you wouldn't like that."

They walk to the bedroom and Sam has him take most his things off and gets him settled in the bed.

"We're gonna have to work on this," Sam says, touching his leg through the sheets, hovering over him.

"I know. I'm really not good at it. I'd give anything for you to stop looking at me like that."

"You're totally lucid you just. It's like someone stepped in front of you and you're talking through them."

"You can thank Dean for that."

Sam narrows his eyes at him. "Are you. In his headspace? Or whatever?"

"Fuckity fuck. Am I ever. It's got that extra-burdened flavor. I feel like I've been on the edge of my seat all day waiting for dad to come home. I wish I could turn it off."

"Holy shit," Sam repeats. He sits on the bed, snug against Chuck's side.

"Maybe you should slap me."

"No. Not ever. Is there something else I should do for you?"

Chuck thinks. "How." He hesitates. For a long time. But Sam doesn't go anywhere. "How you got rid of him when you saw him. Lucifer. I never got to see that. You only ever told me and so I don't know it first-hand."

Sam seems to put his hands together. He flexes his jaw like he's angry. "I don't think I can do that for you, either. I don't think I can help like that."

"Okay. Alright," Chuck shrugs. "Well. Write this day off. What a waste. I'm a total waste anyway. So. I mean I tell myself that a lot so at a certain point I'm sure it just manifests into reality."

"Wow. That is _not_ fucking true. None of it."

"Whatever," he shrugs again. "I'll just go to sleep. Things'll be different in the morning."

Sam closes his eyes and rubs at his head. "You're not a waste. And. Fuck. I don't even know how to begin dealing with this, Chuck."

"We can brainstorm it in the morning. You look tired. You should sleep, too. You should sleep here if it doesn't creep you out too much. You look like I'm creeping you out."

"You're not creeping me out," he lays over the covers and crowds in around Chuck. "I'm only bummed that this is happening to you. It looks a lot like how spirit possession does- the real kind. And that makes me just. So fucking sad for you. I don't like it when other people take over your head, Chuck. That's like the biggest violation in my book, you know that. I wanna run all your old memories over with the car and high-tail it away from here."

"Thanks for that visual. That's a nice visual. Hey, you know what kind of worked when I was looking for Bobby's boxes?"

"It was. Um. I told you the story about the coffeemaker."

"Yeah, it kinda helped this to not be so bad. Maybe we just have to keep telling stories together."

Sam breathes heavy against him. "I can do that. I'll tell stories with you any day. Our stories are the fucking best."

"You're not touching me," Chuck observes. "You're still not under the covers."

"I don't know if you can tell me you wanna be touched when you're like this. I don't know if I can believe you. I don't know if I'm okay with that."

"Oh," Chuck frowns. "Oh, wow. Now I'm bummed out, too."

"Sorry."

"No, I get it. Thanks. I think. Can _I_ touch _you?_ It won't be much, I just really love your hair when it's a perfect cave around your ear like that."

Sam laughs, his smile a little sad. "Yeah. Yeah you can."

«»

"Okay," Sam says when he's awake. "This is the longest I've gone without kissing you since Oregon so I seriously hope you're you right now."

"I just had the weirdest fucking dream."

"Um. Alright?"

"You kept driving after Dean and he thought you were gonna run him over."

"That might have been a projection of something I said."

Chuck squints at the ceiling in the dim light. "Mac and cheese?"

"That part wasn't a dream. That was yesterday's waking nightmare."

Chuck just blinks at him for a while. "Yeah, I guess it musta been."

"You look like you're talking to me directly. You're not completely monotone and repeating yourself," Sam seems to observe him skeptically.

"Wow. Yesterday was a total bust, wasn't it? Oh, man. Charlie thinks my head is completely broken, doesn't she?"

"No, I think Cas explained it pretty well," Sam pets his head, down to his neck, over and over. "You're not stuck behind somebody?" he asks. "I'm kind of pining for you over here. Please tell me you're not still drifting."

"No. It helps that I never saw you get this down-and-dirty, uncontrollably sappy with anybody else before. These are new memories." He shrugs, "They're pretty great."

Sam must have seen or heard what he was waiting for because he sighs and shakes his head and surges forward to kiss him, thumbs under his jaw, carefully directing him. "I know what I want for my birthday," he eventually says.

"Oh. Okay."

"Let's go visit places. Let's make new stories."

"Okay. I want to. But we're all going to the con like a few days later," he scoots closer and puts his hand over Sam's steady heart. He hates having to say no to something Sam wants.

"After, then? Before we come back and do phase two stuff. They can start without us." Sam clings to the hand Chuck has pressed to him.

That might conflict with one of Chuck's plans. Or. No. It might work perfectly. "Of course. Yes. Anything."

"Okay. Instead we can look at apartments on my birthday. Just a few. And we can think about it. Our side-place. Our quiet place."

Chuck nods. "After like a spectacular morning of sex, though, right?"

Sam smiles and drops his voice, "Yeah." Lifts Chuck's hand to kiss it. "Hey. What are we doing for your birthday... on.... August twenty....?" he cringes.

"Twenty-eighth. I donno. I haven't thought that far."

"How come we didn't do anything last-" Sam stops himself.

Chuck can't really help that he kind of huddles into himself. Sam wasn't talking to him on his birthday last year. It was directly after Winona.

"Oh fuck. Oh, god, sweetheart, I'm-" he stops himself again and just pushes the covers away from Chuck to gather him up and hug him.

But Chuck doesn't care all that much when he considers it. Sam's got a way more awful track record as far as birthdays go. As long as he can hold the world back from ending on May second, his own birthday could fly past in a haze again. Who cares?

"Lemme tell you something. Speaking of our own memories," Sam settles Chuck against himself and draws Chuck's leg up and over his own. "You were right. I did tell Dean something before Winona. I told him I liked you and that I was pretty sure you liked me, too. And that he was gonna have to get used to you."

"Yeah, I'd think you'd know better than to give him ultimatums like that."

"It wasn't an ultimatum. It was a polite fuckin' heads-up because that's all he needed to goddamn know."

"Very polite," Chuck agrees wryly.

"You know what else?" Sam pushes his hand up the back of Chuck's shirt. "When I didn't have a voice, I knew exactly who I needed."

"Oh my god."

"I knew you would be it. I knew you could do that for me. I was gonna write something out on a scrap of paper or something. And push it over to you and ask you that way."

"'Do U like me check Y or N'?"

"Kinda," Sam laughs. "I grabbed this stack of napkins at the diner the next day," his smile vaporizes.

"Dean wasn't a dick, though," Chuck decides. "And after breakfast, you pulled your bags out of the Impala and we both drove back to Kansas City. And you were still really quiet so I had to keep talking, right? I wouldn't shut up."

Sam seems to think for a minute. "And. So. Yeah. It was driving me nuts. I couldn't get you to read any of my texts or anything I wrote down. Because you were driving. So."

"So we kept having to take these long stops to get stuff you could eat with your store throat. And we'd write on the napkins and pass them back and forth."

Sam frowns. "In this version, though, I'm still lying to you. About the Becky thing."

"The thing that doesn't matter? _That_ thing? You tell me eventually. And nobody has any hard feelings. Because it doesn't matter and I don't have a stupid overreaction and who cares?"

Sam shrugs like maybe he still cares.

"You remember what you did, though? You eventually went all red, all blushing and shit, and you slid me a napkin that said, 'How long can I stay at your place?' And I wanted you there, just, you know, _forever_ , so I shrugged and I said, 'As long as you need.'"

Sam doesn't follow. Doesn't keep helping him tell the story.

"So you passed the napkin back and it said, 'I'm a very deeply conflicted person but I think about making out with you all the time so can we, someday, maybe?'"

Sam snorts. "That actually sounds like me."

"So I got tired of watching you beat yourself up at every given opportunity and I just-" he kisses Sam. Pushes him back. Crawls on top of him. Takes his rising hands and pushes them to the bed, threading their fingers together. Kisses with a fierce fucking determination. Tries to eat all the ugly words out of Sam's mouth before he can ever say them about himself ever again.

"We're gonna erase August and September. We're gonna go do them over. Okay?" he asks against Sam's mouth.

"I want to," Sam agrees.

"Good. That's the first step. When we both tell each other when we want different stuff or the same stuff." He dips to go after Sam's mouth again, but Sam's hands break free to stop him. He looks like he's experiencing another of those out-of-nowhere moments of complete emotional devastation.

"I really hope I never have to do this without you again," he sounds like he's pleading, his voice so quiet, almost broken. "If this. If you go away," he shakes his head, "I don't know what I'd do."

He'd keep living.  
Because those are the rules.  
Because Dean and Cas and Charlie need him.

But Chuck thinks the better option is to not go anywhere. "So. I won't go away," he declares. "Now, put me where you need me to go."

He offers Sam his hands and Sam only tugs him back down to kiss again.

«»

Chuck only has two real gifts for Sam's birthday, other than the promise that they can go someplace together.

The first will facilitate that plan. Charlie had real wrapping paper in her room so he put it on a box and wrapped the box and put that box in a box and wrapped the box and put _that_ box in a box and wrapped the box.

They have a lot of boxes lying around now. And he thought it was funny.

Sam is exasperated by the time he actually unwraps the tiny, flat envelope.

"A passport?"

"A _legit fake_ passport with all the internal tech that will actually get you through all the screenings and all you have to do is wear a pair of glasses like Clark Kent. It won't set off any alarms or anything. You and me can go to Canada to get to that other storage locker Bobby had there. So. Whenever you're ready."

Sam sits up straight on the bed. "We can take a trip together and our trip can be to Canada for this thing and I won't have to send you to another country on your own. Holy shit."

"Yes," Chuck stays lounged back, satisfied.

Sam holds it and flips the pages like it's a priceless treasure. "There are already stamps in it."

"It makes it look like you've been in and out before, yeah. I thought that was a good idea." He didn't have to pay much more for that. Dean gave him the ID picture and Charlie Photoshopped the glasses on and directed him to a good supplier who had access to the little chips they put in the covers now. It was constructed to be fully scannable, fully swipeable, and will pass all inspection until someone goes back to review records after a couple of months. By then, they'll be long over the border, back home.

Sam puts it back in the envelope and puts the envelope on the night stand, under his wallet. He puts the boxes on the floor and turns to crawl over Chuck.

"Ready for the second thing?" he asks when Sam is eye-level with him.

"I think I have to properly thank you for that one, first. Should we try to go a couple other places before they notice?"

"We could try, but the implication was that the window was kinda short. Two months from the first time we use it. Maybe."

"Charlie can get us plane tickets to someplace," he looks hopeful.

"I promise, we can try, but I'm serious: at a certain point, getting back in to the country will be a problem. We'll think about it."

"Okay," Sam nods, satisfied. "Thank you," and he comes down to kiss Chuck for a while to show his gratitude.

"While we're on the subject," Chuck says, when Sam lets him have air, "the second thing?"

"Yeah?"

Chuck spreads his legs and draws Sam between them and they press together, warm in their jeans and turned on in a lazy sort of way. "Take my shirt off," he tells him. So Sam does, and lays him back down and smiles over him. "Okay. So," his voice goes a little thin and he has to clear his throat. "You can give me hickies. As many as you want. Wherever."

Sam looks at him in complete disbelief. "That involves. Like. Biting and bruises and stuff."

"Happy birthday."

"Oh, you're fucking kidding me," he settles down further, wincing like he's suddenly uncomfortably hard in his jeans. Chuck shifts against him.

Yeah. He is.

"Not kidding. This is your second present."

"Are you totally fucking sure because it might hurt some and I might make a mess of you and everybody's gonna know you're-- attached. To a complete caveman."

"It won't hurt that bad. It'll hurt in the good way," he rolls his hips up into Sam.

Sam gulps.

"I know you've been _not doing it_. Thanks. I appreciate it. But you're invited today. All day. All you want. I wanna know what it's like to see them when I'm over the sink brushing my teeth. It'll be like you gave me something for your birthday, too."

Not that Sam needed much convincing in the first place, but he is 100% totally convinced after this.

He ends up being able to see three of them with his shirt on. Two huge ones on the right and one high on the left side of his neck.

Sam shows him in the mirror and he looks distressed about it until Chuck finally assures him he did a good job.

Now, the rest of him? Between separate sessions of this, there'll be no telling until the morning exactly how many spots of color have bloomed all across his body.

Then, he has to train Sam to like them. Draw his hand down to circle a mark again and again with his fingers. By the time they leave for the con, Sam reaches across the center console in the car and sweeps his thumb around one, where he knows it is, warm and dark red on Chuck's thigh, under his jeans.

«»

The hickey on his shoulder is particularly nice. He thinks about that being on his right shoulder and not the horrific tattoo that marks him as one of his own. As a _Supernatural_ person.

Sam walks through the con with him while Dean and Cas and Charlie positively _frolic at light speed_.

He keeps Chuck within range in the crowds with a touch to his back or his shoulder. He knows where that one bruise is. He caresses it through Chuck's shirts when they pause.

CreepyCon is stacked to the rafters with fake occult shit and shiny black pleather and people cosplaying as various villains -- or just dressed as clowns.

That's rather unexpected.

But they think they're nightmare material and, wow. They certainly will be for Sam. Chuck is shocked by it and worried about him. Leads him around, stays in front of him, defensive and wary.

They don't wander the paths of booths in order. Chuck feels it necessary to protect Sam at all costs from this surprise terror fuel. Clowns are avoided in a wide circle. And pretty much anybody with too much face paint, as well.

Until one of them corners him. They're dressed as Bloody Mary.

The best approximation of Bloody Mary he's seen, at least.

And signing books is _never not awkward_. Bloody Mary has a #11 and left #1 and #4 in their hotel room. "First editions," as if that were bragging about something. It's not like there was a second publishing run. But he just agrees that, yeah, that's great, and hands the pen and the books back.

"Oh my god," Sam says, scooping him back in, and laughs kinda nervous, leading Chuck out of the main hall to the food court for their first coffee break.

He gets cornered by another _Supernatural_ fan wearing plaid and a dirty ball cap when the day is almost done.

They ask if he's been writing anything lately.

It's either being flustered or the remnants of ego that lead him to give up his second abandoned pen name, from when he was writing up football, baseball, and soccer in Georgia and the Carolinas.

When he explains it was sports writing, the fake Bobby shoulders their fake axe with a, 'well, thanks anyway,' expression and, actually. That's kind of funny. How sports fans and fiction fans are always so disgusted with each other's fandoms when they don't know they're the same exact brand of elitist fanatic.

«»

The panel is the next day, Saturday.

EVERYBODY is here today. It's way more packed than yesterday. There are lines for celeb photographs and signings. People he's never heard of and others where he's just like, _your show wasn't creepy?_

But all the different elements hit on different fandoms. It doesn't end up being exclusively about horror movies and dark television dramas and gory novels. There are kids running around in striped Hogwarts house robes and at least one person decked out in neon pink Hello Kitty gear from head to toe.

That's actually.  
Well. That's honestly horrifying to him, but whatever.

Fake Bobby comes back with a fake Cersei Lannister (with fucking _amazing_ hair) and some sort of zombie. The zombie has a well-worn copy of 'Home' they won't shut up about and Cersei stays in character the whole time which is hilarious and the greatest thing ever. Cersei didn't bring a book for him to sign but "congratulates" him on his "achievement in penning 'Jus In Bello'" and graciously accepts his compliments on being the scariest thing in the room with this delicate, menacing little smile.

It was a nice encounter, as far as moments with his fans go. It's almost enough to help with his nerves.

Sam can't get him to eat before the panel. So he doesn't let him have coffee, either, because he won't stop mindlessly clattering two fingers on the table and staring off into nothing.

He's been sort of giving Chuck space as they walk around, not hanging on like normal. But now he switches seats and presses up against him and he doesn't let him go until he has to. Then Sam waits backstage with him until the very last moment.

«»

When Sam comes out of the shower, Chuck's show is over but he has only moved to pull the blankets over his head and stare into the black void of the silent flat-screen.

Sam pauses, scrubbing at his hair with a towel to dry it. For as long as he looks, Chuck can't really unfreeze from where he's sat.

Sam goes away again and comes back dressed for sleeping.

He comes to sit on the bed, next to Chuck. Their knees bump, cross-legged.

Sam moves in Chuck's peripheral vision, but he's way zoned out. It could just be that he's tired or it could be that he's reliving one of the books in bits and pieces. Someone had him sign a copy of 'Bloodlust' before they left the hall.

He hates that one.

"I'm gonna touch you," Sam announces. Chuck doesn't mind that he doesn't ask. He's never asked. He doesn't really want him to. Way back when, after the initial alcohol detox, it freaked him to just be pawed at. But he got used to Sam again quickly.

Not that he ever had a real-life opportunity to in the first place. But it felt familiar all the same.

Sam rubs at his back, over the blanket, until he sways with the back-and-forth of it.

"Need me to pull you back? Or are you gonna fall asleep?"

"I'm... I don't like it," he says slow. He doesn't even know what he's talking about.

"Alright. Come back, Chuck. Where are you?"

"Maybe you should slap me," he thinks aloud.

Sam sighs. "Stop saying that. Tell me where you are."

"I'm in a hotel room. At CreepyCon."

"Yeah. Maybe you are. It doesn't really seem like it. Hey. I need to tell you something," Sam shakes his shoulder a little.

That's important. That's something he needs to be present for.

He shakes the covers off his head and cracks his neck. Scoots so he's looking at Sam, so Sam does the same, turns to sit and look at him directly, one leg tossed over the end of the bed.

"You did a good job on the panel. You shouldn't be freaked out about that. You just looked really sick of everybody's shit when they were talking about _Paradise Lost_ and being pro-Satan. And it. You know. Kinda went downhill from there. It wasn't something you could control."

"Ugh," Chuck tosses up a hand involuntarily. "I was just like. _Sam's sitting here. He has to listen to this bullshit._ Thanks for laughing about it because. Man. Yeah, I was getting pissed. It's like no one bothers to read Milton the whole way through."

Sam laughs. "Uh. Thanks. So, um. You. You really went off at that guy for saying I was selfish."

Chuck tosses off the covers. Claws at the air. Claws at his hair. Shakes his fists. "I should've fucking told you not to sit there, holy fuck. Holy shit. Literally no one reads ANYTHING to the end. I wanna punch holes in the fucking universe," he declares, still shaking a fist.

Sam covers it with his hands and pulls it down to his knee. "Okay," he says. "Okay. I--"

"HOW CAN YOU EVEN-" he stops yelling. "Sam," he restarts. "Sam. _Sam._ Everyone in my fandom? Is a total fuckface." His fist can't shake Sam's hands off. Sam is just watching him with one eyebrow raised. "How. Can you EVEN. Say. That someone who threw himself. IN A HOLE. With viciously angry archan-- WHERE DO THESE ASSHOLES COME FROM??"

"You know, I think he may have been referring to my actions in earlier books."

"WHAT FUCKING ACTIONS?!?!" he can't help but yell. "Saving people or getting maimed or being bled out or having the shit kicked out of you or putting ungrateful strangers before yourself or feeling guilty for having a life or watching your brother die or getting played by angels or conned by demons or," Sam slowly releases his hand only to drift progressively closer and stop the diatribe with his mouth.

He kisses Chuck with a truly fucking heartbreaking lightness, eyes still open and fingers coming up to just touch, five light points on either side of his neck. Two of them touching his hickies and just soft and beautiful. Like the rest of him. Oh, _Sam_.

Chuck deflates. "I'm so sorry I went off in there," he shakes his head. "I'm sorry if it was embarrassing, I can't handle it anymore, Sam. I can't deal with it when people decide you're a bad guy just because you aren't perfect. You're so fucking flawed and that's perfect to me, that's amazing to me, that you're so fucking human but so much more than us. We don't deserve you. I love you. I _live_ for you. I'm so in love with you lately, it fills me up like the ocean flooding a submarine. I'm alive _because of you_. People wanna hate you because they can't believe someone can be so good and they think I just. I don't know. I mean. To a point, defending you makes it sound like I'm totally just stroking my own ego as 'your' writer because THEY DON'T KNOW IT'S REAL IT HAPPENED UNDER THEIR FUCKING NOSES AND I--

"Oh my god," Sam whispers and yanks Chuck forward to kiss him just goddamn intensely and he does not, does NOT, under any circumstances actually deserve this.

Sam reaches around him and pulls the covers back up and cocoons him in again before letting him sit back and breathe.

"I am so fucking sorry."

"I don't wanna hear it," Sam shakes his head. "You're allowed to love me that much. Don't say you're sorry for it. I loved every fucking second of it. I totally just conned you into getting angry over it again. I wanted to hear it without editing for muggles. You love me so much. You see everything." He clutches Chuck's head through the blanket. "I am so fucking sure about you. We are so fucking oddball. I am so lucky you're here. That you're still alive and you love me."

Chuck shakes his head, the movement slightly limited by his confines. "Luck has nothing to do with you being so good, Sam. How could I know everything you are and everything you do and everything you think and all that you want for everyone and how fucking cool you are and _not_ love you? I'd have to be some kind of asshole."

Sam shakes his head, struck wordless, and just picks Chuck's bundle up and hauls him in. Sits Chuck in his lap and clings.

"Dean said-"

"I don't wanna talk about Dean," Chuck stops him. Dean talked some fucking shit to him tonight, too. He doesn't need Dean's fucking opinion on them. "Please? Can we. Can we just." He hesitates. He wants to ask for something but Dean really is getting so much better. The bunker is getting fuller and despite Dean's ridiculous everything, his stupid rules about the dishwashing and his smartass comments, things are finally heading in the direction that Sam and Dean have wanted. The rest of them can just tuck in around them for a while and let it build. This is family and this is good. Even if it's crowded and sort of draining, even if they may need a breather soon, may need an apartment for a refuge, it's still such a good thing.

He's stopped for so long, Sam turns him. "Can we what? Tell me what you need. It's probably what we both need."

"I doubt it."

"Let's decide that together," he prompts.

"I could. I um. I could use a little time off? Like now. Not later."

"From the bunker," Sam follows. "You wanna stay here at the hotel a few more days?"

"I um. Yeah. Or we could go do the Canada thing."

Sam nods. "Once the convention is over tomorrow, let's head out."

"Sure. Okay."

"Okay. Week off. You and me."

Chuck feels like he can relax now. Sam kisses his head and pulls him into his body. Chuck presses his fingers to Sam's neck and feels for his pulse. Then just pets his skin.

"Significant other," Sam breathes.

He never did mean to spit those words out. He never meant for the phrase to mean what it does to Sam. It gets more and more comforting each time he hears it, though. Especially wrapped in the sheer gratitude with which Sam repeats the words.

_Significant other._

Chuck breaks the rules the next morning. He soothes his hand down Sam's side until he's so deeply easy in his sleep, he doesn't feel Chuck pulling away.

Chuck does some intense research online. He sends some emails looking for more information. Hides the bookmarks in a sports stats folder. And he sends a text to Cas.

Cas is up, of course, and gets back to him fast.

Okay. Nothing more he can do at the moment.

He goes to rattle around in the shower until Sam gets up.

As expected, he pokes his head into the stall.

"You broke your own rules."

"I don't really get in trouble for that, though," he says, rinsing his hair out.

Sam disagrees, but has a very generous idea of punishment.

«»

Cas wanders the floor with him while Dean has Sam and Charlie distracted making some last purchases from the different shirt vendors.

"I'll write the last of it out for you," he agrees, "and you'll tell him. I agree that it's what you've been looking for. I'm very sure, at this point, that your efforts won't fall apart."

"Good. Good. And it doesn't go any further until he agrees. I'm really shit at keeping quiet with him. And. Adding to the plan?" he picks at a string on his jacket sleeve. "I'm not good at secrets when Sam's involved."

"I can tell," Cas nods, wry.

"Just, uh. Just. Hold on. I'll think it at you. I'm afraid if I say it out loud it won't work." So Chuck just thinks about his whole plan for the binding spell really hard. All the parts he told Cas before and everything he decided recently.

Cas nods. "You'll find it," he assures Chuck. "I'm positive that will work. I think you've found a way to undo Heaven's meddling."

The fact that he seems pleased at the idea makes this _real_ all of a sudden. He knows he goes completely pale because he stumbles to a halt and feels ice cold. Cas stops with him and raises a hand. Drops it because he knows better. "Thanks, Cas," Chuck says, anyway.

Cas nods, shrugs. "That's what. Um. Friends are for."

Chuck laughs, probably like a total whack job. "I'm gonna go sit down in like a really dark corner and try to forget that I have no idea what I'm doing or who I'm up against."

Cas joins him. He calls to tell Dean which dark corner they've chosen because there are a lot of them in a convention hall half-filled with goths.

Cas gives up his place for Sam as they arrive.

Sam sits on the floor with him and Cas takes Dean to go inspect the tabletop games they were observing from afar.

"I think you're done here if you're taking every opportunity to hide," Sam points out. "We can check out now and go north."

Chuck scoots closer and Sam moves his shopping bag and hugs him.

"Yeah," Chuck says. "Yeah. I'm done. I can't do this anymore. I need."

"I know."

"Thank you."

Sam only starts rubbing his neck. "Tell me when you're ready."

And Sam just sits with him.

Because Sam's the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Escape (The Piña Colada Song)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFldGN3bXBU). And it turns out CreepyCon was actually a thing and it doesn't look like it ever took off. Oops.


	5. god's own prototypes

Canada is expensive. Mostly because they don't wanna try to get a stolen truck full of arcane books back across the border. So they UPS everything to Kansas.

Sam calls any of Bobby's contacts who will still pick up and makes sure he didn't leave anything else there. None of them have any knowledge that Chuck doesn't have and, as a bonus, one of them tracks the call, hunts them down to their motel, and kicks down the door at one in the morning, gunning for Winchester blood and screaming for some kind of vengeance.

Chuck is up, still, writing (okay, getting angry over political articles on Vice) with Sam asleep next to him. The gun is out from under the pillow and in Sam's hand in an instant and they exchange shots just twice.

The other hunter falls dead, crashing against the dresser, a hole in his temple.

It's vacuum-of-space quiet in the aftermath.

Sam doesn't take his eyes off the slumped figure, flips the covers off himself to approach. He kicks the other man's fallen gun away from his limp hand and sets the barrel of his own against the guy's head. Checks for a pulse.

The body only bleeds, doesn't move.

Chuck is still on the bed, his laptop digging at an angle into him where he's clutched it.

When Sam turns to him, he sees blood crawling, dark, down his neck, creeping from under his hair and falling to stain his shirt.

Chuck dumps the computer to the side and bolts up. Jabs at a light switch and drags Sam into the dull glow.

He reaches way up to push Sam's hair back.  
The top of his ear. The side of his head.

He looks toward the bed. Two holes in the headboard, directly above where Sam was resting. One bullet clipped the top of his ear off and opened up the flesh behind it.

Looking back toward the door, one of Sam's bullets is in the wall. The other is in that guy's head. They didn't really miss each other, Sam's second bullet was just slightly more accurate.

"You need stitches but we gotta get outta here," he grabs his shirt off the dresser where Sam left it folded and presses it to the side of Sam's head. He hisses. Must be in a bit of shock 'cause he's not fussing over Chuck right back.

It was instantaneous enough that Chuck hasn't had time to let it shake him yet. All he can see is Sam's blood and a busted-down door.

Meaning Sam is injured but alive.  
Meaning there was a huge racket and they need to _run_ before the cops get here.

Sam bought the gun, cash, when they passed border security. It's nice and dirty and untraceable. He could just leave it--

But what if someone else comes before they can get cleaned up and back into the US?

"Can you hear me?"

Sam nods, wincing.

Chuck turns to grab his pants, pull all his clothes on, yank a hoodie over his head. He holds out his hand, "Gimme," he requests. Sam hands the pistol over. Chuck clears it and makes sure the barrel is cool enough to touch, to keep in his jeans.

Sam is cringing, dabbing at his head.

Chuck zips up their bags and pushes one into Sam's hand, pushes him toward the open exit. He grabs the other two bags himself and herds Sam, in his bare feet, out to the car. He pushes Sam to the passenger side and dumps the bags on him when he's sitting. "Get those in."

He heads back to the room, ignoring the person who's hanging out of their motel room door with their phone to their ear several units down. He pulls the hood up on his shirt and sweeps in to clear the room. Grabs his laptop, stuffs their power cords in his pockets, snags various clothes, toothbrushes, their shoes, the junk they left in the fridge.

He can't tell if Sam's blood got anywhere. Not much he can do to cover it, right now, anyway. Other than lighting the whole room on fire. There's gonna be fingerprints everywhere, anyway, so fuck it.

He dumps the other stuff on Sam's lap. He's pushed the bags into the back seat. "We need to-"

"I know," he pushes the shirt back to Sam's ear. "Keep that there tight."

He heads back to the room. He pushes the dead guy to a sprawl, pats around, finds his wallet, crawls over to grab his gun from under the bed.

He shifts to the door, pulls it so it falls over to the side. The emergency evacuation plan thing is printed on a magnet. He peels the magnet off the door. He heads back out, slaps the magnet over the license plate, obscuring the numbers, and heads for the driver's side. He doesn't have time to fuck with the seat controls. "Was that all your stuff? Close the door."

Sam closes his door and Chuck just guns it out of there, east, looking for dark side roads to get him the opposite direction than he just blazed out. He meanders his way west, at the speed limit, and looks for houses.

He hears sirens, very briefly, very distant.

"Talk to me, are you dizzy?"

"Kinda, yeah."

He needs to stop the blood loss.

He finds a suburban street crowded with cars and parallel parks among them, cuts the engine. A Porsche is conspicuous no matter what, but they've got enough time to get their bearings.

The wound is on the other side of Sam's head.

"Put the seat down. Lie back and face me."

Chuck pops his own seat back to find the bag with the first aid kit.

The gun falls out of his pants as he's fucking around with bags. He grabs it and blindly waves the handle toward Sam. Has it taken out of his hand.

He finds the kit and comes back over. Sam dabs at his head with the shirt again.

Chuck yanks the keys from the ignition and turns on the tiny flashlight. He takes the bloody shirt from Sam and presses the keys into his hand. "You're gonna have to hold this so I can see."

He adjusts Sam's arm like he were a lamp and gets to work.

There's a gash in his head and the top of his ear, near the side, is a mess, opened up real bad. He pushes Sam's hair out of the way and imagines how much it's gonna hurt when he has to put the glasses back on to match his passport photo.

"God, Sammy," he cringes. It's narrow work, and hard to see in the shadow of his own fingers.

They have to take a break when the light starts trembling where Sam holds it. Chuck takes it out of his hand and turns it off, lets him rest. Handles Sam's head carefully to make him look up.

"Tell me," he demands.

"I'm okay. It's just. Catching up to me. You were in the bed with me."

"Yeah. I'm in one piece, though and y-"

"You sure? You swear?"

"I am. I really am," he pets Sam's neck.

"I love you," his voice shakes. "Please?"

"Yeah," Chuck agrees and kisses him. "I have to finish this. We have to get cleaned up and get out of the country. We have to look presentable."

Sam's hands draw him down into another kiss. "I love you," he repeats. "You're my fave. You're my. My fucking everything. I love you."

"I love you, too. I have to make you do this again," he presses the keys back into Sam's palm. Kisses his hand and turns the light on. "Hold it up here just a couple more minutes."

Chuck's hands start shaking by the last stitch and he's rattling when he swabs the area clean. He crawls over Sam and suddenly they're having desperate sex in the seat, pants shoved open and grinding together, mouths fused, their hands tangled tight around their cocks. He knows he shouldn't be doing this while Sam has a head injury but he doesn't let go. Doesn't let Chuck let go.

Sam comes roaring hard, the entire car rocking because Chuck's holding on anywhere he can reach and riding it out.

They're too loud to stay parked there.  
(Wow. He finally got to have inadvisable, adrenaline-fueled sex with Sam. Holy shit.)

Even after he finds another place to park, Chuck climbs back over to him and rocks away on his lap, sucking on Sam's trigger finger and moaning until Sam hauls him under himself and kisses everywhere, talking in fucking _beautifully dirty_ detail about wanting to lay him out on the hood and fuck him till he screams. They're both so messed up right now, it actually sounds like it would be awesome. He puts his teeth to Chuck's throat and breathes harsh. Threatening, tender-slow pressure of a bite that won't leave marks, much as he must want to -- his breath trembles with it. Chuck's grinding is hindered by Sam's searching grip between his ass cheeks, Sam's hands digging everywhere inside his jeans, clawed into his thighs and talking this insane possessive stuff about his cock, his balls as he cups them. Then just kissing him until he's gasping for air. Chuck returns this with nails up under Sam's shirt, across his chest, his nipples, agrees in moans with everything he fucking says, then takes his own firm grip on that stunning ass, trying to ride up, out of Sam's hands. Can't get hard again, the rush ebbing away, but mouthing everywhere he can reach and inhaling at Sam's neck, arching himself against him and begging for he doesn't even know what.

They wear themselves out, though, eventually, and end up just pressing mouths and breathing together.

The sun will be up soon.

They settle smashed into one seat and breathe easy for a while. Chuck finds his phone.

He calls Cas. Cas will be up.

"Chuck?"

"You know it's about that time, right?" Chuck sighs.

"I assume you mean about the time we have to smuggle you both back into the country under adverse circumstances, not Eastern Standard or Central," he says.

"You're getting good at this, Cas."

"Let me wake the others up."

«»

They're really too close to the border to cross it without knowing what the cops know. Charlie tells them to hole up and wait for the heat to either clear or hit the wire.

It's half and half.

The witness accounts of the people who stumbled out of room 208 were too conflicting. They got the color of Chuck's hoodie right, spotted two men of different heights, but nothing else. No one even seemed to notice that Sam was in boxers and bleeding from the head.

There's a full description of the Porsche, along with the state and the last letter of the license plate. The one that wasn't covered by the magnet.

So they can steal a plate and maybe try their luck, but Charlie gets into the stats and theirs is the only silver Panamera that's crossed the border in two weeks.

They can't salvage it.

Among all their options, a flight home is actually the least risky. They dump the guns and the car in long-term parking, use that dead asshole's cash to buy a good dinner, and toss his wallet.

Chuck simply cannot fucking believe that Canada really is so goddamned awful to them.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, drawing him over to crowd into one seat. "I know you were keeping the Porsche from the vamp you killed. I know that was exciting to you."

Chuck nods, but then just shrugs. "Got to keep _you_. By far the better ride," he sweeps appreciative hands over Sam's arms and urges them around himself. "I'm sorry we had to leave some of your beautiful ear in Canada," he holds Sam's head and they both can only smile a little bit.

Sam makes out with him in the passenger seat one last time. Then they change his bandages, hide them under his hair, and go home.

«»

Dean hugs his brother with a huge smile.

"You've had worse," he says after a brief inspection of the bullet wound. And then hands him the keys to an old Buick.

Sam gives him a weird look. "Thanks?"

Dean slaps him on the back. "Hey, I'm just glad that country spit you out." He takes the bags out of Chuck's hands, grins like he's glad to see him, and heads to the passenger loading area. "C'mon. I left Cas in a tow-away zone."

«»

It's a '66 Riviera, dusty black, well-tuned, definitively Dean-approved.

After their first ride out for groceries, Sam wonders aloud, "Would it kill him to steal something with a working A/C?"

«»

Chuck knows the plan, but he isn't aware that everyone's arrived until he's in the middle of their bed, reading on his laptop, and Claire taps on the side of his headphones.

"Oh. Hey."

"Heya dork."

"Everybody's here, huh?" he takes his headphones off, wipes his palms on his jeans and shifts.

"Yeah. Um. Alex and Jody, they're upstairs."

"Did. I mean, I should probably go up there," he cringes.

She doesn't say anything. Gives him a weird look and sits down on the front corner of the bed. She pulls her backpack around and digs through it. Then she turns and settles and hands a book over.

'Mystery Spot.'

He frowns at it. Kinda thumbs at the pages and looks at the cover art. He hadn't known she'd actually taken it.

Claire exhales a deep breath. "I think I learned something from this and I just thought it was gonna be cheesy and I could laugh at you."

Funny how many people have that reaction. Lots of the fanpeople actually don't like this part of the series for that reason. They blame it on the "trickster gag" but he's always suspected it bothered them on a deeper level. He shrugs. Clears his throat. "Okay."

She zips her bag back up and moves it to the floor, looking for words. "It's like. There's not other things in the day. When you do this job, the point of the whole day, the point of everything, from when you have breakfast to when you go to bed. It's all just. Humans. It's all protecting people. And. Not that I didn't know it was easy for people to get taken away from you. But. People can be gone," she clicks her fingers, "in a blink. And." She sighs. "The way Dean is. I donno. He's a. He's a fucking jerk. He can be a real asshole. But. What's making me see that about him is something that he couldn't control. Because he handed over control. Like when he was dying because he saved Sam. Like when he was going to hell. Then he handed over control a second time to the Mark because he was saving us from something else. And that's what made him go off so hard. Why he was. Vicious. Just," she waves a hand. "Scary."

"So." He thinks for a second. Not entirely clear how she made the connection with the book. But it's probably whatever Cas told her combined with whatever she's read of the series by now. "You?"

"I get it. I get why Dean and Cas are so fucked up around each other and." She cringes. "Sorry. But I get why it's kind of intense to be in a room with you and Sam at the same time, too, because," she points at the paperback, "Sam was. That was," she shakes her head. "Charlie gave me the CliffsNotes version of the rest. Like. Sam's pretty much lost everybody. If he ever had them in the first place."

The way she phrases that has the back of Chuck's throat burning. He turns the book over and puts it down. _If he ever had them in the first place._ Jesus.

"So, like. I think I understand a little better why you guys are so focused on one thing at a time. And you're fucking crazy about each other. You and Sam, and Sam and Dean, and Dean and Charlie, and Dean and Cas. Like, _crazy_ about each other. Because if humanity is your job. If keeping _lives_ alive is your job. And you find the lives you like the most? You try to spend every moment you've still got with them just. Fucking intensely. And that looks pretty weird from the outside. But the more inside I am. The more it makes sense," she nods, only staring at the sheets. "I feel like I'm getting to that degree of. Weird. And I'm okay with it." She shrugs and looks up at him again.

He smiles to himself. "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. So. Now you sound like a hunter. A genuine professional," he assures her. "You're moving in, aren't you?" he points toward her bag, more stuffed than usual.

"Yeah," she grins. "That annoy you?"

"Not really. I mean. It might sometimes, but it doesn't right now. You make sense to me."

She considers him for a long moment, head cocked and eyes narrowed. "Thanks, Chuck."

"Can I ask you to do something before you even get started?" he asks.

She shrugs.

Like basically every other writer in the world, he's got an awful habit: a collection of lovely, hard-backed notebooks he's never had an opportunity to use. He does all his writing on the laptop, but he compulsively buys bound journals of _very pretty paper_ that he never ends up using because fuck that. Handwriting will cramp up your fingers like hell. Keyboards are where it's at. But there's some stuff you shouldn't encourage a teenager to blog about where it can be seen or hacked into by the general public. Like angel hunts and death goddesses and decapitated hellhounds. He digs through a pile of his stuff in the closet and comes up with a nice blank journal with a pattern of ravens in black and brown. Grabs a Zebra pen and clips it over the cover. Turns and hands it over.

"You don't have a _dedicated scribe_ or whatever to watch your adventures and write books about it. So. If you keep notes on your hunts, you can remember them easier and other people can learn from them. Or you could just keep contacts in there, interview questions for witnesses. Whatever. But if you start putting things on paper, now, it will save us trouble in the future."

She considers it. Flips through the blank pages. Nods. "Okay. I can do that."

They have a few more minutes to discuss what she's been up to (practicing her shoplifting and pickpocketing under Dean's instruction, and, okay wow, Jody will probably not approve if she gets wind of that), before Sam is looming in the doorway.

At Sam's look, Claire gets up and shoulders her bag. "I'm gonna go put my stuff up, then, I guess...," looks between them. Rolls her eyes. Sam lets her pass.

He shuts them in but doesn't lock the door.

"I'm fine," Chuck says. Wipes his hands on his knees again and shuts the laptop. "We know these people. Well, you do. It's no big deal."

Sam doesn't say anything. He waits for Chuck to rise back off the bed and pulls him in to kiss him.

"Claire says we're super intense because we've found the people we like the most and humanity is our profession. So we're, like, people connoisseurs. We have refined tastes."

Sam pulls back to consider this. Nods. "I think I have pretty good taste in people, yeah," and tastes Chuck's mouth real deep just to prove it. After a minute pulls back. "There are strangers upstairs," he tucks his fingers into Chuck's hair and cradles his head.

"I know."

"Ready to come up with me?"

He closes his eyes and just soaks in the feeling of being held in Sam's palms. "This is really lame, but can I hold your hand?"

"That's not lame at all," Sam lets him go and takes up his writing hand. "They're gonna think you're just fine. They're cool people, too. Like us."

Claire is waiting for them outside, cross-armed, leaning against the wall, sans backpack and boots, her hair tied up. She leads the way and even makes the introductions.

"So this is Sam's dork, his name is Chuck."

 _Dork_ sounds better to him than _boyfriend_ or _partner_. So there's that, at least.

«»

He only remembers Jody's son and husband as a messy pile on the ground.

She is the same woman he remembers. Her angles solidified and sure. Never careless, simply more accepting of the oddball.

And the steady eyes of a County Sheriff. Unrelenting and intimidating and never sitting with her back to an entryway.

She must see literally _everything_ Alex and Claire do when they're sneaking off being troublemakers. She must simply be _allowing it_. He has no doubt.

They tour the bunker because Alex and Jody have never been down. Charlie shows them all the cool stuff and the guys mostly open doors and follow.

Alex kicks at the dust and seems to like things in her quiet, sly-eyed way.

Chuck wanders back up to start coffee because Dean has been griping about wanting some and, hell, he's always down.

Jody finds him in the kitchen.

"I'm kind of ancient, so I have to ask if 'dork' is code for something other than 'boyfriend,' because that was a little unexpected," she cocks an eyebrow.

"Uh. No. That's basically what it means. Just. With like 50% less _high school_ implied."

"Partner?"

Well. Whatever. Sure. "That works, thanks." Can't a dude just be a dork?

"Claire says you wrote those books on the shelf," she thumbs toward the library and slowly prowls the kitchen.

He gets the eerie feeling he ought to pat his pockets down and make sure a full nug hasn't somehow materialized as if summoned from his college days. "She told you why, though?"

"Yeah. I guess it's. Weird religious stuff."

"Basically."

"So you've known them a while. So I don't have to give you a mom speech about how they're good boys," she reasons aloud.

"They're really very _not_ good boys. But trust me when I tell you I'm so vanilla I threw up after our last hunt. I don't need to be threatened."

She keeps looking around at things closely, keeping him in her periphery.

He's, like, sweating by now. He backs up from the boiling machine. Busies himself dragging a few mugs over.

He tries not to notice her assessing him but after the third time he breaks down. "You don't have to run a full background, I know you can basically smell it on me," he puts his back to the counter and shoves his hands in his pockets.

"I'm gonna say possession of less than an ounce and maybe a doo-ie," she leans against the wall and crosses her arms.

"Just the DUI, actually. I've technically only been arrested once."

"Technically," she smiles.

"It's not actually an arrest if they just want you to shit your pants scared in the back of the patrol car and shove you off on your parents' porch."

She nods. "True. True."

"For the fucking record, my parents didn't care, they were just pissed I didn't come home with their lotto tickets." So, neyahhh.

She closes her eyes, shakes her head, and laughs. "Claire showed me this stupid internet video a couple weeks ago and it. It's like a documentary but it's not, it's-- I donno, you'd have to see it. But. I see now why she calls you a 'honey badger.'"

"Oh my _god_ ," he scrubs his hands through his hair and returns to the coffee pot because it's the only thing that's never said an unkind word about him.

«»

Sam has been pressed nearer to him ever since Canada. He's soft and close whenever they're around each other. He has private conversations with Chuck in public. Normal things, like where they're going or if it's almost time for dinner, but he says these things quiet and he prompts responses or waits for them. Hangs close until Chuck answers. He pays more attention than he had previously. He makes even the little things between them feel secret and significant.

Chuck has never seen this before. These are Sam's behaviors only they're intensified. Centralized somehow.

And Chuck realizes what he's been seeing is Sam's in-love look like it's grown up or something. With surety and wisdom it's never been filtered through before.

He is pretty sure Sam fakes it when he says his ear hurts, but Chuck pushes him off to one of the bathrooms, anyway. Changes the bandages, anyway. Sam draws Chuck between his knees where he sits and watches him work.

"The side of your head really does look irritated. I know you don't want to, but we should put your hair up. At least in the bedroom. Unless you wanna ask Cas to fix it finally?"

He tugs the supplies and things out of Chuck's hands and helps him box them up. "I'll probably tie it up, yeah. In the bedroom, though."

"Jody's looking at me like she's a cop and I'm a punkass troublemaker," he finally spills.

"She is a cop and we're all punkass troublemakers," Sam smiles.

Chuck palms Sam's head. He looks like he's so in love. Chuck wants to kiss him until the world ends. He fans a hand out behind himself until he hits the door and it swings shut. He kisses Sam light and promising and trails kisses up his face to his broken ear. Sam hugs him close. "Gimme a hickey and then we'll go out there again," he whispers.

Sam strokes hands down his back. "Sure. Where do you want it?"

"I donno. You pick."

So Sam dips to lift his shirt and suck a hard kiss into his right hip.

He knows that Sam will reach over and thumb at it whenever Chuck's sitting to his right. Which is pretty much always, except in bed.

Chuck cards through his hair while he does as he's told.

He could be wrong. But he thinks Sam is tired of only being this within the confines of their bedroom. They're used to respecting stiff-backed Winchester emotional boundaries when they're all around each other. They never see Dean and Cas all over one another. They don't walk in on grind sessions or awkwardness, no matter how much their laughing at each other might imply it.

Sam is a big guy. He's always looked too cramped when he tries to fit into polite restrictions and social norms, like everything can be just as ill-fitting to him as normal-length clothes. Maybe Sam is done trying to fit into the bunker. Or maybe he's just pushed his personal boundaries out around Chuck and made him a part of himself. Whatever it is, something has shifted and it's new and breathtaking. A whole higher level they've climbed to, together.

Sam's stalling. Kissing over the new mark and nipping and pressing at it, like he's not quite sure he likes the dimensions. Chuck scoops Sam's head and lifts it.

It's fucking intoxicating. Sam looks up in, like, _adoration_ or something and how the hell? When the fuck?

Chuck has to lick his lips to speak. "Hey. Apartments."

"Yes. Double triple quadruple fucking yes," Sam nods. "We'll look again. Tomorrow morning. Before everybody's moving around and we go out with the ladies."

"Cool." He draws Sam in and hugs his head. "You done with that?"

"I guess." Sam circles his fingers over the mark, closes his eyes against Chuck's chest. "I'll work on it more later."

«»

Jody wants a conference with Sam and Dean. A sit-down with them both and with nobody else. They disappear to a diner for a full afternoon on the second day. Cas is the one who grumbles that it isn't right. But only to Chuck.

He can see both sides, however. Cas is learning to like this all-inclusive thing where they don't keep secrets. He likes sniping at Charlie when he doesn't agree with her orders. He likes both being proven wrong and having a voice that's worth hearing. He likes that it involves all of them.

But Dean has made it seem a lot like him and Sam have been through some stuff with Jody that means they've got something a little deeper going on. Something Jody can't trust Cas and Chuck with quite yet.

He hears Cas out, anyway, and keeps his opinion to himself. He isn't exactly sure that what they try to keep out of the bunker today will actually _stay_ out of the bunker. Not when Dean's got Charlie, Claire, and Alex circling him, wheedling things out of him.

Charlie and Alex wanna make cookies and Claire is not opposed and Chuck kind of forgot that was something you could just _do_ in a home and Cas doesn't eat.

So Cas disappears to go finish translating the book for Chuck. With the last boxes from Canada arriving, he's got all he needs to break it down, including the original copy, kept safe next to their bed. He's gonna do the last of what he can do and then it will be Chuck's turn to sort of modernize a very ancient method without breaking what it does.

They make three fucking batches of cookies stuffing various things inside the dough. They are maniacs. It's perfect. He eats dough with them because if they get salmonella from it, Cas can just cure everybody. Like, why not, right?

 _Serenity_ is on one of the movie channels and they end up on the couch moaning about how awful they feel and thinking about digging up salsa and queso and chips. Charlie lounges alone in her queenly recliner that doesn't recline all the way and the conversation eventually turns to how quickly each of them can draw a gun like Mal.

Cas inevitably finds them in the range, downstairs, each of them with their earbuds or headphones on, making a racket and wasting rounds. Serious Winchester family time. Chuck isn't the slowest draw. Alex is a bit slower, Cas is slowest. Claire and Charlie tie for first because they're arcade addicts.

"But put a knife in his fucking hand and see which one of us gets gutted quicker," Charlie points to Cas.

So they do.

They each have their own knives they prefer. Chuck and Cas with their angelic blades. Charlie with her short swords. Alex with a truly nasty-looking dagger and Claire with a knife Sam passed on to her.

Cas is fastest and most controlled, no contest. Charlie is fucking amazing with her blades. Claire and Alex are so unpracticed that Cas seems to take personal offense. And Chuck sits comfortably in the middle again with the speed of his own draw.

This is the most absurd room he's been in, but also, personally, the most typical. Always, always, always the middle child.

There's no salsa. They basically eat cheese, tortilla chips, and cookies for dinner.

«»

Chuck is taking off his glasses and closing his laptop when Sam gets back. He drops off his jacket and kicks off his shoes. "Gonna brush. Be right back."

Chuck follows. He has to brush his teeth, too.

"Bar?" he asks after spitting.

Sam nods. "Yeah. We went. For a while. We, um." Sam looks out into the hall and nods, like they should wait to talk in the room.

With the door locked, they sit on the bed side-by-side, ankles crossed, in similar poses.

"So." Sam blinks. "Bobby left us the property. His property. Where the house and the salvage lot were. Well, I mean," he corrects himself. "He left it to one of my aliases. So I could get it, legally. He didn't leave it to Dean because he knew Dean would just leave whatever he had to me. But I think it was for Dean--" he squints, seeming confused, "... but I think. I think it's mine now?"

Chuck untangles this for a moment. "Bobby left the salvage lot to you for the both of you."

"Yeah. And. Jody found the deeds and all. And. Well, okay," he puts up a finger, "here's the thing -- and Dean is bummed about this. But. Jody's the sheriff. She's an elected official. She's been reelected since she first got in. She doesn't run unopposed but she always wins. And there are no term limits. So. She thinks we've got a good idea going down here," Sam makes a wishy-washy motion with his hands. "Kinda."

"She doesn't approve of the delinquency, I assume."

"Well, yeah. But she understands that this is just how it is for some people. And she loves us, too, but she can't just uproot everything in South Dakota. So. She's gonna be there with Alex for a while longer. And Alex can come back down here whenever she's ready. And that means Krissy and her crew have another place to go to ground if they need it. Protection from someone in the law is always good. And Jody just. She needs a place of her own. She isn't really willing to come to Kansas, is all. That would just be," he considers how to phrase it. "That's just not her life. As much as she likes us and she feels better understanding all this stuff, knowing what's behind the curtain? She feels like she's gotta protect her town."

Chuck nods. "That's understandable."

"So now. I mean. Look. Charlie said there's not enough room to keep all the books. All the stuff we've gotten from Bobby's lockers. And we still haven't emptied all of 'em out, right?"

"There's one more of your dad's, one more of Bobby's, at least," Chuck confirms.

"So. If we had a base up there, as well. We'd have Jody nearby for backup. And," Sam takes a deep breath and just shakes his head. "You know. We have options now. Resources out the ass. All these books, all these tools, all these weapons. And when we-- they. They finally start hitting the road, the kids, all trained up. I mean, you know there will be more."

"Hunter's Hogwarts," Chuck repeats Charlie's phrase.

"Right. So. It wouldn't be a bad idea for there to be a. You know. Another base somewhere. Another port for storms."

"Bobby's place. You guys are thinking you can rebuild it?"

Sam goes real quiet. Really still.  
"I don't know. I don't know."

"It's a possibility, though," Chuck nods. "It's not a bad idea. Lots of property under all those rust buckets," he comments, thinking of the wide salvage yard.

Sam shrugs. "Jody busted some kids for climbing through the wrecks after one of them showed up in the emergency room and wouldn't tell anybody what happened to him. She pried it out of them, that they'd broken in and been spray-painting the cars. Daring each other to go into the burned-out--" Sam stops, scratches his head. "Anyway. She had a new fence put up around the place. Had the house bulldozed and all the more dangerous stuff removed at the county's expense. She got to bill them because she said it was a public safety hazard. But that means most of it's clear and it can be built on. What Bobby owned, I guess it goes back into the trees, up past the creek."

Chuck can picture it. He pretty much knew that.

He elbows Sam. "Hey. You're a property-owner today. Congrats," he smirks.

But Sam? He _smiles_. Smiles like he likes it. "Yeah, I guess. Thanks."

"I ate a lot of cookie dough today," Chuck announces. "I feel like a lead weight in a swimming pool."

"Cookie dough?"

Chuck shrugs. "And I'm painfully average in a fight. I figured you'd get a laugh out of that."

"Who were you fighting?"

"We were just practicing. I'm middling at pretty much everything. It's nice to know I still can't exceed expectations."

"I object," Sam announces.

"I know you do. But you're in love with me, so you think I just," he shrugs, "write epic poetry instead of sports articles and that I look like the Mona Lisa before my coffee. You're completely warped by now."

Sam only looks over and smiles at him again. "I'm gonna lay down on you. My head is kinda throbbing."

Chuck makes him get up and get down to his jeans, first. They carefully tie his hair up and get him half a painkiller. He's still insisting it's not a big enough deal to bother Cas with.

He lays back in his shirt and shorts and lets Sam curl up on him, then.

"Do you think we oughta-" Sam stops and he's faced away from Chuck, so there's no telling where he was going with that.

"Ought to what?"

Sam settles against him further. "If we got an apartment, you'd wanna be there more than here, right?"

"Yeah. I don't doubt it. Sorry."

"No, it's fine. I know how you work and it's fine."

They're silent for a while and Sam hugs his torso. "I'm so glad you're here," he says, quiet.

Chuck pets his head and rubs his neck. "There's nothing better than you just saying that," he decides. "I mean, I'm glad to be here. But the fact that it's what you want is what blows me away. Also you're squeezing me and we already discussed how I'm full of cookie dough, so that's inadvisable."

Sam snorts and moves off of him. Draws him in and reaches over to get the lamp.

«»

A couple mornings after Alex and Jody head back north, Cas starts going quiet(-er than usual). He spends a lot of time, otherwise, with Claire, with fake swords and fake knives, fake fighting until he has to tell her that she's exhausted and he's stopping.

Cas seems to look inward. And it almost looks like that might be him plotting out how best to take Claire's training in hand.

But Dean seems to know otherwise.

Charlie comes home from a lunch date with the pharmacist from town. She's grinning and well-kissed and very pleased with herself, so Cas gives her an hour.

Then he requests a private audience.

Dean goes to the kitchen and mindlessly applies himself to making brownies. Elaborate ones. With cheesecake pieces and cherries.

He looks so nervous Chuck tells Sam to go sit with him and keep an eye on him. He has to sit in the garage with his laptop. It's too hot to just sit outside today but he can't handle the tension in the house.

Then, to his surprise, Dean comes to get him.

"Um. You've been summoned. By Charlie Winchester, First of Her Name." He shrugs and leans into the Impala's open window. "You and Sam, I guess. Did you piss Cas off or something?" He's truly confused.

"Uh. I don't think I did?" He closes his computer and moves to scoot out of the car. Dean opens the back door for him. "At least you're off the hook," he points out.

"Yeah. Hey, there's brownies, if you want," he thumbs toward the stairs.

«»

Chuck goes up to return his laptop to the room and Cas, Charlie, and Sam are all there waiting.

"Creepy, guys. Seriously."

They all shift. They all look nervous. They all look vaguely like a room full of reluctant executioners.

Suddenly dread drops into his gut like a tree through a roof and he's _dead sure_ he's about to get kicked out of the family.

"Woah! No! Okay," Sam drops his arms from the defensive huddle he stood in and takes two huge steps to cross the room and pry the computer out of Chuck's frozen fingers. His panic must show on his face. "It'sokayit'sokay," he puts a hand to Chuck's neck, "nothing life-or-death, alright?" He turns and glares over his shoulder at Cas.

"Uh. Charlie can do this without m-"

"Nope. Sam's right, Chuck, it's fine. But we're-- we're gonna go wait for you in the file room," she starts turning Cas and pushes him out of the room. "Three minutes, okay?"

She tugs the door closed behind herself.

Sam sets the laptop on the bed and turns back to him, palms his face. "Okay, so calm down for me. You wanna take a breath with-"

"Uh, no, I kinda wanna fuckin' hide or hop in a time machine and fix this. What did I do?? Dean and I are being, you know, _comparably_ nice to each other!"

Sam kisses him quiet. "Hermit crab, I don't think it's that. It's the both of us. So whatever it is, you gotta know it's something we're gonna handle together. Promise. I fucking promise," he swears.

"What did- why would Cas? What are we-?"

"Alright! Breathing now. Time for breathing," he gathers Chuck's hands and pulls them so Chuck can feel him take exaggerated breaths. "Good job," he says after a while, when he picks up the pattern. "We're going down there together. You said it, okay? Charlie's wise. Whatever it is, it's something to make us even better."

He slumps but lets Sam lead him out.

It doesn't help that Claire disappears around a corner, Dean tugging her hand. "Chuck?" Even she looks confused and slightly concerned. Shit.

Charlie sits on the chair in the file room, the one they normally strap demons to in the adjacent dungeon. She sits poised and easy and serious but not too serious.

Cas can just stand for hours with no fatigue, so she must have told him to take the place he now occupies, cross-legged on the floor, both of them unimposing; him low, but at her side.

Sam sits on the ground opposite them and his look dares them to talk shit when he pulls Chuck to sit down between his knees. One hand on Chuck's back, the other below his chest, feeling him breathe.

Charlie looks bummed. "We didn't mean to make you panic, Chuck."

He can only shrug. "To a certain point, I guess that's just my function here, so whatever," his laugh is thin and desperate and slightly bonkers.

Cas is meeting whatever look Sam is sending over Chuck's shoulder. "I wouldn't do this if it weren't important."

"Do what?" Sam challenges.

"We're. Um. Asking. Asking you both to." He hesitates. Then just restarts: "I want you both to leave the bunker."

Chuck looks back at Sam, wide-eyed. Turns back.

"The fuck?"

"We are, um, ever so gently, pushing you out into the world," Charlie says. "Look, you can have all the time you need to figure out where to go. We'll help you with absolutely anything. Everything. And you're moving out."

She doesn't make it an exception. She doesn't say, ' _but_ , you're still moving out.' She has already decided on what Cas approached her with. She agrees. She's declaring it. She's standing behind it.

Okay.  
So they've been thinking about getting an apartment, part-time to maybe full-time in the future.

But.

"Wh-- um." Sam shakes his head.

"So here's the reasoning behind it. And, yeah, I agree, for the record. And you guys put me in charge, so," she shrugs like, _heavy lies the crown, you know?_

She takes a deep breath.

"We have to cauterize the ends of the Winchester codependency," she states. "That's it, Sam. It's time. It's over. If this family is gonna have any hope of growing up and out of its old, bad habits, then that has to be something we leave behind." She holds her gaze steady on Sam. Repeats: "This is it. That's all over."

Pretty much the only movement in the entire room is when Chuck just _slowly_ cocks his head in wonder after a solid 30 seconds of silence.

Like the silence for a solemn half-staffing of a flag.

It's. That's it. That's it?

"I have other reasons," Cas admits. Glances to Charlie but goes on regardless. "One of them is that. Well, I know you try, Sam. But you aren't really willing to train the... new hunters," he blinks at the phrase. "I know that you're still worried that you'll overpower them. Or hurt them. Or get angry. And so your idea of contributing to their future is more academic. If that's what you're comfortable with," he gestures, "and it can keep you close to Chuck, then we want you to be able to do that."

"There's nothing wrong with being more hands-off," Charlie agrees. "We get it. We don't want you to feel pressure either way. But it seems pretty clear which aspect you're more comfortable with. Guns maybe. Shooting practice and primers on monsters. That's not stuff that Dean and Cas have patience for. So Chuck is pretty much writing textbooks and-"

"HEY-" he points at her sneaking ass with all the viciousness he can fit into one finger. "Nobody fucking said you cou-"

"Sorry not sorry!" she laughs like a loon.

"For fuck's sake," Sam mumbles behind him.

"I didn't say you could fucking go look-" Sam tugs Chuck to himself and he slumps and sits and stews.

She's still laughing. "I'm a naughty, awful Empress!" she proclaims. "Empress of a clan of killers whose passwords are all shamefully easy to crack! No one woman should have all this power!" she cackles.

And stops laughing suddenly when she looks at Sam again.

"Ahem. Sorry. Anyway."

Cas sighs and takes up his point again. "You realize, I also have to do this-- tell you to do this. For Dean. For Dean's health and because." He pauses. "I've been paying better attention. And Charlie's right. I'm supposed to be saying more as a result. Whatever I can do to decrease the possibility of Dean posturing to remain on top of everything? Whatever I can do to get him to stop thinking he has to live and die as a killer? I have to stop that. That's. What I want my job to be. That's what I should do for him," he declares quietly. Shrugs. "The alcohol consumption needs to be limited. Dean is capable of going almost entirely without it, without even _thinking about it_ when he's happy and distracted. And when the younger women are here, he rarely has more than one beer over several hours. That's all part of it. But there's also the fact that Dean has been accepting me by his side with as much frequency as you, Sam. Which means he's always got someone around. And he'll have me around. So you can be nearer," he gestures at Chuck. "Your own partner."

Cas looks down and around for a moment taking in the room. And probably whatever is through the walls.

"I feel comfortable in deciding that it's my duty, now, to him, to make this a home he can grow old in."

Sam subtly grips Chuck a little too tight at that. He can feel Sam's head on his shoulder as he nods to Cas. He understands.

Cas looks to Chuck, then. "I think that, in several ways, this will be beneficial to you, as well. I think without the additional stress of a crowd, you might make more progress on your projects."

What he says has a pointedness to it that carries the implications of other of their past conversations. And Sam's hand is still at his back so he can feel tension leaving his own body. Just a slice of it, but very suddenly.

Cas's understanding and agreement and approval.  
It actually means a lot.

"You have time, of course," Charlie says again. "It doesn't have to be an automatic thing. But. You know, there's still the cabin? Maybe? And you guys could make a few trips and just make it gradual so Dean starts to get used to it. He's got Claire here," she adds. "And they're doing a lot better together. They have almost too much in common," she rolls her eyes. "But the point is, Dean's gonna be okay. He'll have too much new stuff to do to still cling on so tight. We'll see you on hunts occasionally and he'll know right where you are so he can drive over and bug you any time. It's not like you're just fucking off. The way we're going to explain it to him is that we need more of our star resources spread out. And we need someplace else to store books so we can empty the last of the storage lockers without this place becoming a full-on fire hazard," she waves around, her eyes going wide.

Sam goes still around him, like he just absorbed the tension that Chuck dropped.

Cas rises. "We have to go have this conversation with him, now. You should take some time to work this out in your own company."

He offers his hand to Charlie. And she looks concerned.

But she takes it. And lets Cas lead her out of the room.

Sam and Chuck wait on the floor until they hear their steps hush away on the stairs.

Sam sweeps his hand up and down. "Well. We've been talking about it."

"Yeah."

"You feel easier. When Cas pointed out it would be quiet for you," he puts his hand there on Chuck's back again. "Right here. You already feel better just thinking about it."

"Yeah," he admits. "Sorry."

"No. No, you know. It's. I think it's okay."

Chuck turns and Sam kisses him. "Then why are you bunched up?"

Sam shrugs. Shakes it off a little. "I'm fine, I'm just. Worried about Dean. And then I had an idea. And. Then I worried about Dean again. And. You know what?" he asks.

Chuck shakes his head.

"Cas just kicked us out."

"Yeah," Chuck marvels. "How weird is that?"

"Not actually gonna complain, though. I mean. They're not wrong. About all the Winchester stuff. And." He takes a deep breath. "Getting kicked out with you? That's not so bad. I get you to myself. I won't watch you get stressed out with the kids all badgering you."

"Do you know Claire calls me fucking 'honey badger' behind my back?"

Sam snorts. "Yeah."

He thumps Sam's shoulder. "Thanks, dick."

«»

Chuck needs a pre-dinner nap after all the undue stress. (He would have taken a nap anyway, but, you know, it always feels more adult when you can blame it on something.)

He feels Sam leave his side when there's a knock on the door and startles back awake when Sam gathers him up again.

"Sorry," he whispers, pressed to his ear.

"Whawzat?"

"Just Dean. He says he's sorry. Really sorry. He says we don't have to go, he doesn't want us to. He asked if you were okay."

He yawns. "We do. Haveta go. But that was nicea him."

"I may have told him you weren't okay so he has to make chicken alfredo tonight."

He pats Sam's arm, "Good job squid," and drops off again.

«»

He must not have locked the door because Claire's sour face wakes him up.

"I get no peace," he gripes.

"You can't go already," she declares, "I just moved in."

Chuck pulls the covers over his head and Sam's laugh shakes his back.

"This is bullshit, how come I don't get a vote?"

"No votes in a monarchy," he comments, muffled.

"Chuck," she pokes at the covers. "how can you be okay with this? You let an angel kick you around."

"Honey badger don't give a shit," he announces.

Sam laughs harder, buries his face against the lump in his arms.

"Ugh. Whatever. Dinner's ready, you dorks." She leaves the door wide open, light spilling in from the hall.

Sam scrambles under the sheets to retrieve him and pull him out.

Chuck sighs when Sam hands his pants over. "I think they're working against their purpose at this point."

Sam nods. "Yeah. The quiet will be good." He rolls his sleeves back down and shakes his hair out with a hand. "It's nice that they don't want you to leave, though," he shrugs.

Oh, Sam.

Chuck straightens up and circles the bed and scoops Sam's head in his hands. "Yes. Thanks for giving me more friends than I can even remotely handle, Sammy."

"Five is too much, huh?"

"Cabin? Or apartment?"

Sam seems to consider this deeply. "I have to think about it for a while. I really do."

"Okay." Chuck kisses him. "I'll be fine wherever you feel like you fit best."

Dean hollers far away that the food's ready.

"I know you'll be. That's why I really have to think about it hard." He stands and pushes Chuck toward the door and that's really all they talk about it for a while.

Cas doesn't push anything. But he does corner Chuck alone and apologize.

Chuck doesn't have any problem with Cas finally taking Dean's health and care into his own hands. Dean deserves that.

"Did Sam tell you his idea? For a place to live?" he asks.

"We'd been talking about apartments, yeah. We'll see."

Cas considers this. "Let us know if you need help. With wherever you both decide."

"Yeah. Thanks."

Whatever Cas is picking up on, it's probably in Sam's brain. Chuck is long done invading Sam's head without his permission. He lets it go. He just has to ask for Cas to do one more thing for his not-so-secret project.

«»

Cas steps almost silently into the shooting range where Chuck has surrounded himself in dictionaries and Bobby's handwritten notebooks to try to wrench more meaning from the book.

Just a whisper of movement and he's blinking at Chuck's makeshift fort.

He pulls a box from a distended jacket pocket. 

"You said something would come addressed to me."

"Yeah. Oh shit. Thanks."

Cas nods. "You're welcome. Something strong is in it," he comments.

"Strong?"

"Magic. Something with strength."

"Good vibes or bad vibes?" he wants to confirm.

"Neutral. Good. Goodish?"

Chuck takes a deep breath. He runs his pen through the tape on the top to open the package. Cracks it open.

"May I ask?"

Chuck thinks about it. "Um. I'd rather you didn't. If it doesn't work I don't need to think about how many people I'm gonna have to admit that to."

Cas nods. "All the same. Please be careful. I know you understand the properties of magic very well. But you're not practiced in it. If you're still pursuing a course of action alone, I would feel obligated to tell Sam before you went too far."

Chuck finally looks down into the box. "You can tell him whatever you need to. I'm not keeping things from him. I just have a timeline for how I'm going to explain everything."

Cas squints at the box. "It's good. The object in that box."

Chuck nods. "Good." He can't look away from it.

"If you're going to cry, I would feel obligated to tell Sam about that, too," Cas shifts uncomfortably.

Chuck rubs at his face, at his sinuses, and shakes his head. "Thanks, Cas. I'm working on it, okay?"

"I'll review everything one last time after you're done adding notes."

"Thank you. Seriously," he looks up at him.

Cas nods. "This is important."

"You just wanna stick it to The Man."

Cas is familiar with this expression. "Very much," he confirms.

Chuck smiles. "I'll let you know, Cas."

Castiel nods once more and heads back upstairs.

Only when he thinks Cas is far enough away does he finally remove the contents.

He can't help but see it in his own ink-stained hands. Paper cuts and spacebar callouses.

Him in his dumpy hoodie and jeans. Taking up about the same amount of space as the books he brought down here. Is he really under some delusion that he can drown the intentions of Heaven with some words? With some fucking wind chimes? Is he really so fucking sure of himself that he can change what the Winchesters fought for years just to push back and delay and try to scramble some short distance away from?

No.

Is he sure enough to use this? Does he honestly think it might work?

_How's your fucking hubris, you chump?_

He closes the box. Takes care to fold the four panels closed.

He sets it aside with his coffee and his headphones.

The intention is to open the book back up and keep working.

But he's suddenly so sure it's pointless. Completely in vain.

He pulls the book close and looks for someone. Something. Some memory that will tell him he's doing right. This was Bobby's book. He would have done anything to keep them safe if he had thought it was possible. He stopped trying to use this book simply because he was interrupted by a hunt. He never went back to it because he couldn't translate it properly. 

So, he tries to tell himself it's what Bobby would want for his boys, if there was a shred of hope in it.

But he's suddenly so sure there's no hope for him that he wishes he never even thought of this. Wishes the box were lost in transit. That no one ever responded to his emails and he could have moved on, left it as an idle wonder. Or wish that Sam never even texted him. That he went back to drinking and didn't disrupt Sam's life at all.

And. Well. Shit. Cas wasn't bluffing. Because Sam finds him clutching this stupid fucking book to his chest and crying his fucking eyes out.

He doesn't even blink because, obviously, Chuck's so fucked up he sits in broken temples of books in shooting ranges and just lets his own inner monologue beat him into submission when he attempts to rise above the muck he was intended for.

And he's conned Sam so thoroughly that he actually has sympathy for his ridiculous, useless, wasteful little shit.

All of Sam and all the wonderful things he is just fold onto the floor and gather his unworthy ass up and hold Chuck close and ask him what's wrong. He pries the book away from him and draws Chuck to his shoulder.

He has to get a fucking grip. This is a dumb, shitty thing to do to Sam. He doesn't deserve Sam. If he should be anything to him he should be some kind of support system. He doesn't have real power, though. Sam got him sober. Sam brought him here. Sam gave him a home. Sam wakes up next to him every day and makes him just unbelievably happy.

He's not strong like that. He belongs in the dumpy apartment Sam found him in.

He tries to shut himself up. All he succeeds in doing is holding the sobs in like hiccups and making fists in the fabric of Sam's shirts.

"Can I tell you something?" Sam asks into Chuck's hair.

He isn't a solution to anything. He can't say he'll be able to help Sam with whatever it is he's about to say.

After a pause, Sam admits, "I want something. I don't know if you'll be okay with it."

Chuck would crack open his own ribs and give Sam all his insides. He'd give anything to be of actual benefit to one tiny fucking corner of Sam's amazing, impossible life.

"I wanna go to Bobby's property. I wanna build a house with windows." Sam pushes his hands up to turn Chuck's face. "I wanna live there with you. I want to _live there with you,_ Chuck. I would be happy no matter where we go but I want a fucking house with you. Please tell me what's wrong."

Literally nothing is wrong. He's trying his best to make what has become a _spectacular_ life even better but that's not gonna work and it's bumming hi--

"Out loud," Sam requests. "Stop living alone. Live with me. Fucking live with me. Tell me you'll live with me and that you love me and tell me what you're stuck in so I can pull you out."

"I love you," he says, sounding pathetic. "I don't deserve to live with you."

Sam just pulls him in and presses Chuck's wet face to his own. "You deserve everything I say you do. If you're not gonna stick up for yourself, then I have to do it. And I get to decide to keep you in a house and put you to bed and take away the things that make you feel like this. Why would you even say that? Why would you put my significant other down like that? You've saved my life and you make my head clear and you make me happy and I get to share my days with you. You do the good stuff and the hard shit and all the most boring and amazing things with me. I want more of that, sweetheart. I wanna keep doing this."

"Are you completely fucking positive about that?" he gasps a breath, "Because I think you should have more. More and with somebody better."

"Chuck. Oh my god, Chuck," he kisses everywhere he can reach without letting go. "Okay. Time for you to look at me and listen to every word. No words in between. No double meanings. No lying for whatever fucking reason." He pulls back and holds Chuck's head and kisses his mouth. "Ready?"

Chuck shrugs.

"You're not a problem. You're not a burden. I'm happy with you. When I'm not around you, I miss you. I got you to stay in my life and I'd like to keep it that way." He drops his voice. "You've got an oddball set of talents. So you fit right in. And you're weirdly beautiful," he uses his thumbs to wipe Chuck's face, "and I'm not at all kidding about that. I'm not blowing smoke up your ass. You fit in my life and you're solid and smart on your own. I'm lucky I have you here. I-"

"You say these things because you're a good guy. The best of all fucking good guys," Chuck starts to object.

"Does that make it any less true? So, what, I'm a good guy right up to the point where I start lying about this? What would be the endgame there?"

Chuck doesn't just deflate, he crashes his whole body into Sam and lets himself be gathered up and drawn between Sam's thighs. "This is unreal," he sobs. "I can't believe this is working. I love you so incredibly fucking much."

Sam settles against the wall and pulls Chuck with him, rubbing his back. "There are fucking lifetimes between when I first heard your name and now. So, I get that. I really do. And I understand that things feel like unrealities to you. When that happens, can you just come to me, though? You're a logical, reasoning person. You gotta let me convince you. Chuck, I wouldn't have taken things this far with you just on a lark," he shrugs. "What purpose would that serve in the whole world? Do you know how much you've taught me? You just drilled it into my head: I was so sure nobody was gonna love me for real but you're human and imperfect and wonderful, too. You're real and every time I look up, you're there to tell me that you love me for _real_ \-- for all the things that are unreal in my life that make up my every day. I've decided to believe it. Believe in it with me. Come live this with me." Sam holds his mouth against Chuck's head, calm breathing and easy heartbeat. Asking Chuck to come home with him to a place built just for two.

"You're saying I could get this full-time," he clarifies, his head clogged, making him all nasal and sniffy. "You're saying we move into a house so we can keep doing this?"

"We can keep doing this wherever you want. I'm asking you if you'll let me build us a house in South Dakota. If I can build a house and keep you there with me."

Chuck scrubs at his face. "If all we could keep was a car, I'd stay in it with you."

"What about a yurt? What about a tent? What about a cave in the woods?" he carefully pulls Chuck's hand down like he needs to see him. Like it's possible that he really, in all honesty needs to see him answer.

"You're a part-time caveman. We'd make it work." He sniffs and considers that he used to love texting with Sam so much. He always had such amazing things to say. They'd buoy his day. But he hasn't had the chance to miss it because Sam's been right here beside him doing the same ridiculous, hilarious, amazing, loving things. Sam loves him. He has a phone full of evidence that what's right in front of him is the truth. "You're gonna do this with me because you love me. You sent me text messages every day because you love me. You deal with my shitty emotional breakdowns because you love me," he takes a few breaths because Sam shouldn't have to ask him to. Sam helps him calm down all the time.

"I really fucking love you," Sam whispers into his hair. "I love your emotional breakdowns, too. And your hoodies. And your secret project to keep me safe. And your aversion to hot dogs. And the way you love my brother so much it annoys you. And the way you touch me like if the earth opened up and swallowed you at any moment, at least you'd have that one last time you touched my arm. And your wobbly right knee. And the way you fight for me. Even when it's something inside my own head that you have to fight with. And the way you let me keep track of your glasses. And the way you're falling asleep on me right now. How many times have you come down here to cry without me? Because the idea of it is really bothering me."

"I don't come down here with that intention. It was just. Something made me realize my secret plan might not work. And. Cas fucking told on me."

"He's supposed to. You're his friend."

Chuck closes his eyes and Sam takes the opportunity to kiss him everywhere again. "You should kiss me back so I know you're not still thinking horrible things about yourself."

"You think you can taste that or something?"

"I can, actually."

Chuck leans up to get kisses. But it's really one long, pressing kiss. Sam kisses him like he did when they left the apartment in Kansas City. Wraps Chuck in his arms and dips almost as if to lay him out on the floor, tongue dominating, sure and steady.

Chuck suddenly realizes that Sam wishes they could leave, now. That he wants their life together in their house to start now. He wants them to be a family in a house with books and windows. He wishes it could be _now_.

He wants the both of them to be one sure thing on the next step up in his life. He wants things that Chuck wants, just in different ways.

Okay. Okay.  
Alright, okay.

He needs to plan to do this right. But he can do it. He wants everything Sam wants. He's gonna stop telling himself otherwise.

Sam lets him breathe but doesn't let him go. Doesn't stop pressing his mouth everywhere.

Chuck makes a noise he doesn't remember deciding to make. A kind of content moan. He moves his arms up and hugs Sam.

"I have more work to do," Sam says into his neck, hands spanning Chuck's tense back.

"Let's work on it upstairs."

"Okay," he handles Chuck so he can move away but not too far away. "You need any of this stuff?"

"I'll grab it. Can you go-"

"No."

"Okay. Later, then," he grabs his coffee mug and Sam takes it from him, hooks his glasses off the top of his head. He tucks the arm in the front of his shirt and folds them there. Turns Chuck's head back towards him to wipe his face off with the sleeve of his flannel.

"You just got your sleeve snotty," Chuck points out.

Sam shrugs and picks up the important book and his pen.

He doesn't care that he has Chuck's stupid tears on his clothes. He loves him regardless.

Chuck sits there suddenly struck.

"What?" Sam pauses with him.

"I can't wait for this to happen all of a sudden."

"Told you we're on the same page."

They stand up and Chuck grabs the box. He picks up the papers he needs and lets Sam tug him toward the stairs.

In their room, Sam tells him a million romantic things until the tension leaves his back. "I know it's early, but I want you to sleep now."

"Can we. Um." He props his chin on Sam's shoulder. "I never went up there. I mean. I've never even seen the place. And Jody said she took care of the property, right?"

"You wanna go see it?" Sam pets his neck and tries not to look as excited as he is.

Chuck smirks at that. "Yeah."

"We'll have to find a place to stay. She said Donna's coming to hang out and I think three women ganging up on you will be too much for us to stay with them."

"Yeah I, um, I had to grow up like that. So."

"Yeah." Sam squints at him.

"What?"

"Do I get to meet Betty?"

Oh. That's not something he wanted to think about.

"I was just. Just think about it? I mean. You know literally _all_ about _all_ my family."

"Mine wasn't. Good. Though. Mine was. Sam. I don't think I want to. Um."

"Oh. Shit. Is this a. A, um," Sam screws up his face, "a gender thing?"

"It definitely would have been if dad were still alive. I honestly don't know if the rest of them have changed at all." He grimaces. "I just. Seriously don't wanna be the Thanksgiving table 'precautionary tale.' I'm fine being invisible."

Sam takes a deep breath. He pulls the covers up and hides them both under. "You can stay invisible if you want. But if Betty emails you again. Will you just think about it?"

He folds closer into the warm length of Sam's body. "I will. I'll think about it. I don't know if. But I'll think about it."

"Okay. Thanks."

They stay in their makeshift shell until it gets too humid from their breathing.

"We can find a sorta long-term temporary place. For while it's being built," Sam is pretty much fantasizing about carpentry and roof shingles at this point.

"Solar and stuff," Chuck offers. "Self-sustainable everything. You know. For the next apocalyptic event."

"Mm. Yeah. And more rooms for more books."

"You get the panic room back. It probably survived. Not that it's your favorite place to spend a day, but still."

"Yeah. Still useful."

"Guest room. Just one."

"Just one, I promise. Sparse, too. Not too inviting."

"Thanks."

"You know, I don't actually wanna play host, either."

Chuck creeps up and kisses him. "I like you better all the time."

"Wanna start driving tonight? No. Nevermind. Tomorrow. I need you to get some sleep," he quickly changes his mind.

Chuck has an image of Singer Salvage Yard in his head. It won't be at all the same when they get there. But without the junk on the lot, it will be a pretty big property.

With all sorts of, you know, dead bodies and assorted illegal shit buried in various holes.

He's not a pet person. But he can see the conversation coming at some point in the future. A huge yard with dogs. As long as the dogs don't get hair everywhere. As long as they stay out of his bed.

Yeah, he's not bringing that up until he's forced to.

But there's a sunny little corner in Sam's heart where a couple mutts chase birds into the trees and press into Sam's hands, blind with devotion and ready to tackle anyone at the slightest hint that it's time to play.

He supposes as long as they're not cats, that might be alright.

And he's not fucking around with the pet hair thing. That is not cool.

Anyway. First, Sam wants to build a house. Chuck has no idea how hands-on that process will be. He can see Dean getting involved.

Well. There he goes jumping the gun again. Because, no matter how certain Sam thinks he is right now, this whole binding deal could still fuck that up. It could still change things. And magic, he's well aware, can put holes straight through you. It can twist your intentions.

Castiel's assurances, written neatly all over the notes, are not as comforting as they could be at the prospect of telling Sam. Of finally explaining it all.

He couldn't just take what Sam's giving him, could he? He had to go and complicate it with a damn _personal mission_.

What the fuck is his problem?

Chuck lays his head down and watches his hand move up and under Sam's shirt.

He maps out Sam's skin with his eyes closed. Memorizing. As if he didn't know it already. He feels everything expand and fall back as Sam takes a breath.

When he finally blinks back up at Sam, he's beaming, one corner of his mouth hooked higher than the other, looking down at an odd angle at him.

Chuck gets up to straddle him and plant one sure kiss on his mouth. He pushes Sam's hair behind both his ears. Sam won't stop smiling like a goof.

When he finally feels like sharing the joke, he grabs up Chuck's wandering hands. "Permanent residence," he says, and he's not talking about the future property prospects in South Dakota. He's not talking about the bunker.

Chuck shrugs. "I'm about a studio. You're more like a two-story with a three-car garage."

Sam shakes his head. "I'm a tornado-bait doublewide. You're like a perfectly-shaped igloo."

Chuck goes completely rigid.

"Chuck? I didn't mean you're cold. I mean-"

"I know exactly what you mean."

Sam rubs his thumbs over Chuck's jeans, over his thighs. "Okay?"

"If I accused you of still being psychic-"

Sam rolls his eyes.

"Alright. Just checking."

"We'll stick with shells, I guess," Sam reaches to get a grip on his ass and pull him forward.

"Hey, Sam?"

Sam pulls him down to kiss him. "Yeah."

"Bathtub."

"Holy shit," he smiles wider if that's even possible. "We can have a bathtub," he says against Chuck's mouth.

«»

At the morning alarm, the space behind Chuck is warm, but empty. He turns to hit snooze so, technically, Sam's not breaking the rules.

It turns out he isn't, anyhow. Not that the rules really still stand, but Sam likes to play at taking them seriously. He comes into the room cursing as the alarm sounds again. "Fuck. Sorry. Fucking sorry, I got it." He clunks their mugs on the dresser and grabs his phone to silence it.

Chuck flops over onto his back, watches Sam tuck hair back into the tie. "Just a sec."

Chuck just blinks slow until Sam kneels onto the bed and holds his hands out, pulling him up from his sprawl. Chuck scoots to sit and crack his back while Sam retrieves the coffee.

He gives Chuck silence until he pauses.

"Ah. Oops." Sam removes the mug from under Chuck's confused glare and exchanges it for his own, properly sugared. "That's the right one."

Sam tests him at various stages to see how awake he is. They don't have to do this every day, but when he doesn't let Chuck get a full 6 or 8, it takes a while for him to start up. Sam will push the cup to Chuck's lap and kiss at him until he's almost done and he finally kisses back. Today, he gets half-way through before he feels like kissing is more important than coffee.

Sam sets his own aside. Points at Chuck's. "Chug that," he requests, and goes to shut and lock the door.

He comes back to hook the mug out of his hands and push the covers away. "I'm taking your clothes off," Sam announces.

Chuck grumbles. "You first."

"Why-- okay."

Chuck drops back to watch.

"Don't go back to sleep on me," Sam tosses his shirt off.

"Hair," Chuck says. "No, wait," he sits up again. "Get down here."

Sam sighs. "I was trying to fuck you. I was trying to have good-morning sex," but he crawls over anyway. Hauls Chuck to the center of the bed.

"I appreciate it. I'll be able to enjoy it more knowing you're not in pain," he motions for Sam to bring his big noggin closer, then runs a finger near the wounded spot on his head. "Looks better every day. Does it hurt? When I do this?"

"It's fine. You want my hair down, don't you?"

"Mm. Yeah. I just. I really like to. You know."

Sam grins. "Yeah, I know. I like that you like it," he comes in for another kiss. "You're allowed," he permits.

Chuck carefully takes his hair out of the band and waves it loose. "I'm allowed," he repeats with wonder. "I'm allowed to do this."

"You've been allowed. You're the only one who respects the hair."

Chuck handles it for a minute, then uses it to pull Sam in and kiss him.

Sam tries to talk, but suddenly, Chuck's not really interested in that, pulls Sam to lie down on top of him, keeps after his mouth and on and on after.

Sam tugs away just to strip them naked. He doesn't pull away far or for long. The way Sam touches him this morning feels good. Feels solid and knowing, backing up what he said yesterday. That he believes this is happening. That he wants Chuck to believe. Chuck liked that he was being more and more sure. But now Sam doesn't hold back and silently wonder what he can do. He either asks or he already knows.

Sam lays him out to, like, flat-out make love to him, this time. It's slow and close and quiet.

"Are we not talking?" he whispers, hand wrapped around Sam's arm to feel his muscles as he works on opening Chuck up.

Sam smiles. "I always wanna hear you talk. What's up, sweetheart?"

"I love you so much. I wanna do this for hours."

"We can go for hours. I woke you up really early."

"So we could drive," he has to close his eyes. "I don't wanna fuck up your schedule."

"Well now it _is_ part of the schedule. See? Easy. Open your eyes."

He does and watches Sam some more and gasps.

"Yeah, you're normally babbling by now. I must be off my game," Sam dips down to kiss him.

"No," Chuck considers him. "I'm just. Happy. Because you like this. With me. You could be anywhere right now. But you're gonna--" he has to reach up for Sam's shoulders and hold on for his life all of a sudden, it's so fucking good.

Sam pulls back a little. "I'm gonna slide right inside of you and make you come. Because this is the only place I wanna be. Because I love you through your skin and through your freakouts. Because under those things, you're my significant other and you're tying my life together. Making it make sense."

Chuck just moves his hands to Sam's face. Sam comes in tight to him. He brings Sam's head down to press into his shoulder. "Move your hand." He waits for Sam to prop himself up above, instead. Chuck takes Sam's cock in hand and scoots his legs wider. "Watch me do this," he instructs.

Sam looks down between them and hisses breath through his teeth as Chuck guides Sam into himself. He sinks further and pulls Chuck's legs around his body.

"You." Sam gasps. "Gonna go slow, okay?"

"Yeah. Tell me when you need more. I kinda wanna just zone out on this for a while. Get high and fuzzy on this. I just think we should do this for as long as your legs hold up," he says, breathy.

Sam kisses him, once and twice and three times. Moans between them and comes back for more. Pulls back to kiss Chuck's knees and push them up and drive between them.

After a while, Chuck puts his arms up and silently requests that Sam return to them.

He does and shoves his hands down under to span Chuck's back. Pull him down and drag a pillow under him, propping him at a better angle.

Chuck doesn't remember ever smiling this much while getting himself fucked all deep and proper. This is the kind of contentment and happiness that typically gets hellfire rained down on it in their circles.

But you know what? That's not gonna happen.

He's going to go away with Sam to see a dirty patch of earth where he wants to build them a place to share space and sunlight and time and books and where they won't leave each other behind. Because they don't like to spend time apart. Because life is changing and flinging themselves into danger has stopped being top priority. Saving people is fine; so long as it starts at home.

"I think we might actually be good at this," he laughs.

Sam hugs him tight and rocks into him a little at a time. "You know the first thing you ever did was save me?" Sam moves, changes his angle so he can lean down, hold Chuck's head. "Before you even scared Lilith off. You protected us. I didn't hear your words for the first however many years you knew me. And I haven't understood-" he has to take a breath. "Really understood, Chuck. Really. I didn't. That you loved me and you wanted this before I met you. That you loved me more, after, and thought there wasn't a chance. Then I see you again and the first thing you do is patch me up. The same way you patched my ear up in Ottawa. You're gonna love me and hold me together. I'm not a bunch of broken parts when I'm with you."

"Fuck. _Fuck._ Sam. Oh my god I promise. You're not parts, you're one whole Sam. The best one ever. I just love you. I'm ju-just. _God._ On a whole new level of in love with you. You have to slow down."

"Slow down?" Sam sounds breathless, desperate, but he does.

"Yes. Yes, oh fuck yes. Slow, Sam. Don't leave me."

"Hell no. Promise I won't."

Sam does everything he can to draw it out. He watches Chuck closely and keeps it slow but they can't be any less intense staring at each other like this, breathing each other in like this and gripping tight.

When Sam starts smiling, they laugh relief at each other.

If something does come for them, they're not gonna go alone. If they go at all. Chuck knows more tricks than anybody when he's being challenged.

And Sam saves planets.

"You should come, Sam. You're gonna be driving and I don't want you exhausted. You should come for me, now, I want you to. What do you need from me?" he hooks Sam's hair behind his ear on the good side, and carefully does the same on the other.

"Can you tell me? Please? Tell me how I'm the one who can--c-an touch you whenever I need to."

"You get to do that, yeah. I'm gonna stay in reach so you can hug me and crawl all over me and check my bruises and give me kisses, Sam. Oh fuck. Oh yes. So fucking good, Sam. Good when you fuck me. When you come in me and when you take care of me. You're the best at taking care of me. No one else does it right. Nobody tries. But you just know how every time."

Sam has his eyes closed, listening, and that's okay. He can't see his soul through Sam's eyes. He feels Sam's soul lighting him up from the outside every day. Sam, giving his love away to Chuck. Knowing, by now, that it just falls right into his hands and that's all Chuck gets drunk on anymore. Hasn't jonsed for anything else in a while, really.

"Sam. Sam, do yo-" Sam cuts him off by speeding up, helplessly, and reaching between them to grip Chuck.

"Come with. God. Come with."

"Yes. Fuck. Yeah."

"You were gonna tell me," Sam gasps.

"Yes I. I-- you should. You can if you want. If you wanna."

"I don't need to right now. I need you to feel good. So easy, Chuck. Not stressed out. You should put your hands in my hair, though."

"Yes. _Thank you._ "

Sam laughs, thin but happy, as Chuck holds his head tight. Tries to be careful. Tries not to tug or pull. Just holds the warm silk of it in his hands. And lets Sam take care of them both for a while.

«»

They start out later than Sam wanted. But they're clean and easy and well-fed and happy. Rested after falling back to sleep until noon.

Dean hears Sam's plan out while he's cooking up lunch. He nods and says it "sounds like an idea."

He won't be ready to fully accept it yet. But that's okay. Cas will work on it.

So they only drive until dinner, then find a motel to curl up in for the night. Make a repeat performance of it all in the morning.

They meander the back roads to Bobby's lot. Chuck knows the route so well he's worried he's gonna slip off. So he closes his eyes and holds out his hand until Sam grabs it up and kisses his thumb.

"Wow. It looks like it changed a lot. It's. Well, it's all fenced in differently. Wait here."

Sam stops the car and comes around to his door.

"Hey. It really looks different. I think you'll be okay." So Chuck opens his eyes. "Tell me if you're not, alright?"

"Yeah," Sam takes his hand and draws him to the fence.

He pulls an envelope out of his pocket. A number is written across it in blue for the combination lock. For the second lock, he upturns it and a key drops into his hand.

They untangle the heavy chain.  
Each pull a side of the gate.

It's weird and sad and barren. The frame of the old maintenance bay still stands. And some of the cars that are still good for parts remain. A few trees. Not much else. Everything in the shade is overgrown. Everything in the sun looks brown. Like normal.

Sam's hand comes to his back. "Okay?"

"Fine. It's. Way different. It's never ever been like this."

"Is it. I mean do you think we'll be able to. It looks kinda. Trashed. I mean-"

Chuck takes a deep breath. Turns to Sam. "I gotta ask you something."

Sam looks down at him, nervous.

"Did you bring a gun?"

"What?? Um. Yeah. Of course," he reaches back and checks his ammo and shrugs with the gun like, see?

"Did you bring a shovel?"

"A-- a shov-- no. Chuck, wh-"

Chuck snags his hand and marches off with him to the covered area, past the shelves, all empty now, and the detailing room, its windows tagged and broken.

Sam puts his gun away. Chuck points at a shelf. "Be tall."

Sam looks up. Straightens and shakes his coat up his arms. "What am I looking for?"

"Fourth tier, see if it's there."

Sam climbs the shelves and looks. Reaches real far and shakes his head. Comes down with a sturdy old snow shovel.

He has to prop it against the shelves and dust off his hands. Has to shake his head again and kiss Chuck. "Do you even know what you're looking for?"

He closes his eyes. "I know we have to dig. By. By a tree?"

Sam puts his hands to the sides of Chuck's head and rubs his thumbs there. "You need help?"

"Yeah. Gimme a minute."

Holy shit. Oh, this is good. "Good old Bobby," he says out loud. "What an awesome old kook."

"What's up?"

"Um. I'm afraid of bears. So keep your gun out."

"There won't be bears," he can't see it but Sam probably rolls his eyes. "Am I leading you someplace?"

"Nah. I got it."

Sam kisses him. "Open your eyes?"

Chuck breathes and does.

"Okay. North."

They go back out around the yard to the acres behind, into the trees. Chuck rubs his head and turns right near the creek.

"We're looking for a tree with bullet holes."

"Lots of 'em out here," Sam comments and makes sure Chuck doesn't trip over a hidden stump.

"It'll be a lot. Centralized in one area. Like target practice."

Sam pauses in front of one after a while. Knocks on it with the shovel handle. Shoots him a questioning look.

"Okay," so Chuck stands about where he'd be aiming from. Then turns 180 degrees. He walks to the tree opposite. Circles to the other side of it. "Yes. Definitely yes."

Sam comes and stabs at the ground with the shovel a little. "Here?"

"If you would apply your expertise," Chuck gestures grandly.

The shovel is a bit flimsy for this but it does the job. In no time at all, Sam hits metal.

"Treasure? Gold? Riches? Emergency trucker hat stash?" he wonders aloud.

"It would ruin an amazing surprise if I said, so let's just go open it. But. Not where there are bears."

"There's no bears," Sam insists, but shakes the dirt off the box and leads him back, anyway.

They sit on the charred foundation and Sam pulls picks from inside his jacket. He pushes his hair over his ears and Chuck holds the box up on his knees so both his hands are free to work on the lock.

After a while he says, "This isn't a curse box, right?" just as the bottom clunks to Chuck's lap and some tightly-packed towels fall out.

"Not to us, it's not." He digs through until he finds the red towel, heavy with its burden. Hands it to Sam. "Housewarming present," he smiles.

Sam laughs until.

The Colt falls into his lap.

He breathes in and out, unsteady. Touches the metal. Runs his fingers over the carvings in the handle, the barrel.

"Bobby went to Carthage. There was death magic seeping out into the surrounding towns. He had to neutralize the ground. And he found it. Buried it when he thought neither of you were coming back to hunt- well. He thought you were dead and. Well. He was drunk. Forgot where he buried it." It's his very last memory of Bobby. One of the last things he saw of the future before he crashed his truck and stopped seeing anything.

Sam looks up. An unexpected sharpness in his expression. "You went walking around in Bobby's drunk head?? You shouldn't be doing that, Chuck, what th-- what if it makes you-"

Chuck sighs. "Bobby's head is literally nothing _except_ drunk-o-vision, so there's nothing for it. It won't make me drink. I promise."

"How do you know? You could ta-"

"Because you got me sober and you're staying. Because you're building me a fucking house," he tosses up his hands. "Call it what you wanna, but Sam Winchester has decided to build me a fucking house," he laughs, only slightly hysterical. "You couldn't pay me to be absent from that. I wouldn't drink on a bet. I might miss you doing something ridiculously cheesy or loving or beautiful or wonderful. I missed years of this. I might want a drink every so often but I don't know if I'll ever want _to drink_ again. Do you understand the distinction?"

Sam looks like. Goddamnit.

He could just. Right here. Right now. In this moment. He could. He won't.

He wants to.

He won't. But he could. Instead:

Chuck kneels up and kisses Sam's head, fierce and solid. Drops to lay one on his mouth and the corner of his mouth and his chin and fall back to sit. "You look like you're in love with me. I'm a complete sucker for that. I got you a really cool gun. Can we go to Starbucks, now? It's hot out here. There are bugs."

Sam closes his eyes and shakes with silent laughter until he leans back and sighs.

Sam clears the gun. They leave the shovel. They lock the gate back up. They get in the car.

Sam makes him pose with the gun, held up and smiling like a cheeseball, the distinctive handle and scrollwork clear in the photo.

He sends it to Dean.

It's actually a few minutes before he calls back, howling for answers.

"He got me a present!" Sam answers like it's the simplest thing in the world.

Dean's "FUCK YOU" can be heard with perfect clarity even though the phone isn't on speaker.

Between Dean's yelling, Sam gets in a few words of explanation, then briefly describes the property.

Sam turns in his seat. "Dean wants to know if there's more hidden stuff."

"Probably. I'd have to think about it."

"Yeah, we'll find it eventually," Sam reports.

Dean asks something else. Sam looks like he's thinking about it pretty hard. "Yeah."

He reconsiders. "Yeah. I should. I know." His eyes skip back over to Chuck. "Hey, we haven't stopped for lunch yet, I gotta go."

Sam's silent, listening.

He rolls his eyes, "YES, we'll bring it back for you to see. We'll share custody like every other hunt or something."

He hangs up when Dean starts ranting again.

"Coffee first," he says, starting up the car. "I need it, too. And I need WiFi so I can send Charlie an email about the bullets."

Chuck nods and wraps the gun back up and puts it back in the box, shoves it under the seat.

"Hey," Sam says when he comes back up. And draws him close with both his hands on Chuck's head. "Love you. Thank you."

Chuck considers him for a moment and how intensely, staggeringly sure he looks. That they'll come back here later. And stack a big house on top of the dust. And live there happy with troublemaking chicks all crashing for the weekend and writing books about how to stand up to monsters and cleaning guns and contentedly sewing stitches into each other. Piling a monument of peace and uncut, 100% pure, absolutely narcotic love on top of rusted car parts and ashes.

He is wordless.  
He is struck without access to all his language.

He clings to Sam until it's too hot in the car and he has to let him drive.

«»

Chuck spreads his fingers out against the table. Can't even think of picking up his coffee right now. Sam is typing up the email to Charlie. Trying to remember as much as he can without asking Chuck because he thinks he already overtaxed his brain for the day.

He's being kind and gentle and protective. Over an email. About bullets.

So, finally, Chuck starts.

"You know," he clears his throat. "You know how I wanted to find a spell that worked like the tattoo? But, like. For angels? And everything else?"

Sam blinks. "Uh. Yeah. The secret project I still don't know about."

"I do. I know about it. I think that I found. I mean- Cas helped me read stuff I couldn't translate. And we found something."

Sam pauses. Types one more line about asking Dean. Sends the email. "Okay. What kinda magic are we talking here? Because the rebound is always pretty rough when-"

"I know. And that's why we're discussing this. I actually." Chuck shifts in his seat and still can't look Sam in the eye. But it's bursting within him. It's batting at the bones caging in his chest. It's glowing and growing like each and every time he falls in love with Sam even more. "I actually wanna discuss it right now. Like, right now."

Sam eyes Chuck's coffee, untouched in the middle of the table.

"We don't wanna do something that'll break stuff, Chuck."

"No, I know. I wouldn't ever do something that would break you."

Sam is starting to get something. He's starting to interpret the vibe here and he doesn't like it. He puts a hand on Chuck's arm and presses, prompting him to turn.

"A binding. It's a full-on binding spell," Chuck fesses up automatically. Still can't meet Sam's eyes and Sam's about to start getting nervous and/or pissed about that, he knows. "I wanted it to be something else, but I didn't find that. Everything else was too weak. I found this. It would be. We'd be binding you. Binding you to. Someone. Me. Binding you to me," he stutters.

"Do I really need to say it?"

"It's not as out-there as it sounds. It's a modification on a fairly common pagan ceremony-- well it. Was common a couple thousand years ago." He laughs nervously. "Before the sect was summarily wiped out. And, yeah, there'd be bounce-back, but nothing I can't handle."

Sam's whole body shifts. He reaches around, scoots his chair, then physically turns Chuck to stare at him dead-on. "It would rebound on _you?_ And you think there's even a remote fucking possibility that I'll find that acceptable?" he pronounces carefully, so that it sounds just as crazy coming out of his mouth as he can possibly make it.

"No, but it's _designed_ for almost exactly what we need it to do. It wouldn't hurt either of us permanently and then we get, like, celestial power of attorney or whatever. We get veto power over who is and isn't even allowed to read our minds, let alone waltz inside," he motions, "Me over you and you over me. That's part of the bounce-back. So we have two hurdles and, yeah, okay, one of them might be a breaking of some kind. That's the answer to a binding: a breaking."

"A breaking? Like, oh, I'm just supposed to let your spine snap one day so I don't have to worry about something that's probably never even gonna be a threat again?"

"You don't know that," Chuck shakes his head. "Every time you think you're safe. I know, Sam. You've told me all the stories. I mean. Gadreel. Fucking _Crowley?_ " he hisses, tries to lower his voice. "I once had to watch a teenager bumble around in your body!"

Sam sniffs and flexes his jaw and hooks Chuck's chair, dragging him in closer. This time he handles Chuck's face and makes him look him in the eye.

"I get veto power, already, remember? I get to stop you when you're about to do something that'll cause you pain. You remember this?"

"Vividly. Yes. I like it that way, I do. But you gotta make an exception just this one time."

"What if the thing it breaks apart is our hearts, Chuck?" the mere thought of this sounds like agony the way Sam says it.

"Cas says it's literal, it won't be like that."

"We don't know for sure. Magic doesn't do actual-literal, Chuck. Magic is fucking insidious."

Chuck wavers. "Well. Religion less so."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a binding, Sam, a pagan ceremony with magic tailored _around_ it. A religious ceremony. Religious acts tend to do more call-and-response. I call you to the binding and you accept but I have to accept it in return and you have to call on me to make sure. Communication both ways. Like a prayer or a sacrifice."

"I think-" Sam pauses. Takes a breath. "I think I'm following you. But I'm not ready to agree to this. I have to think about this. You also might not wanna use the word 'sacrifice' when you're trying to sell me something," he notes.

"It'll make me feel like I'm doing my job," Chuck adds. "I know I can handle this. It's like how I kept nailing myself on the kitchen table when things were going good with you. It's taking the bad with the good. It's like when we couldn't stand to be away from each other anymore. It's a stretching and a trust and a little change. It's just. It'll work. Cas and I know it will. And I wanna bring you in on it and you can double-check our work and we can decide on this, you and me, together."

Sam sits back and looks around, thinking.

"We've got a book with the whole thing laid out. Cas has the translation down for you. He won't help me with any more than that until you've heard everything we know. I worked on as much of it as I could but. Now we put our heads together. Right? _We_ do. You and me?"

Sam finally looks to Chuck's face again. "I'll look at what you have. And.... I can think about it."

"If it's not me you wanna be bound to, I can understand that," Chuck says. "If I had my way, you could bind yourself and not have to rely on anybody. But I have to protect you. I think that's just gonna be the way of it. So if not me, then. Then I'd understand."

"I have to think about it," Sam repeats. Then he grabs Chuck's hand up. "Look at me."

Chuck focuses on his eyes, at last, and doesn't look away.

"I will think about it. I know you want this for me like I want things for you. Okay? I know. I understand. And, do I wanna be vessel-proofed? Hell yes. If I ask myself flat-out, then yeah. But the expense is maybe something I can't afford," he cradles Chuck's writing hand like it's something precious.

"Okay. As long as you say you'll consider it."

"Yeah. Of course. I will."

"Okay. So," Chuck tugs his hand back to wipe it, like the other, on the knees of his jeans. "You don't have to consider this next part. It's the same deal, it's just. A part of it. And. You don't have to do this. And if you don't want to. Well, I guess we have at least half our answer," he shrugs.

"I don't know wh-"

He's going to regret it for the rest of his life if he doesn't do this the full-blown right way. So Sam watches him stand up and kick the chair back a little. But when Chuck gets down there, he's pretty much on both of his knees, not just one. And that will have to do. He digs in his pocket for the only thing he's got in there. And he leans on Sam's knee where he sits, showing him the whopping Sam-sized ring he bought from a pagan on Etsy.

"Oh, fuck me," Sam says.

"Would you," Chuck looks up to meet his eyes again. "Will you also think about marrying me?"

"Are you fucking- I. I. I just. Yeah. Yes. Holy shit," his hands reach Chuck's neck so fast, his elbow slams the table and makes the laptop rattle. "I don't have to think about it: I'm saying yes," he says again, wide-eyed.

Chuck drops his head and breathes for a second, brow landed hard on Sam's knee, then he looks up and hands the ring over.

Sam takes it, curious and looks at the etchings in the silver for a long moment.

Chuck laughs, not quite breathing correctly, still. "You can fucking do a study of it any time you want. I kinda got it so you could wear it first, nerd."

Sam gusts a laugh and shakes his head and Chuck draws his hand back down so he can touch Sam's palm where an old scar curves across it. Sweeps his thumb there. Sam presses his thumb in against it, gripping tight. He looks up and Sam nods, eyes just fucking _clear_ and _sure_. So Chuck puts the ring on him.

Someone claps behind Chuck.

Because they're in a fucking Starbucks.

He's on his knees proposing in a fucking Starbucks. Which. You know. Pretty much par for the course at this point.

A few more people clap.

"Shit," Chuck says, laughing and dropping to sit back on his feet.

Sam is looking around like he just noticed, too. Like _what the fuck?_

Then he draws Chuck up from the floor and stands, almost lifting him off the ground clinging to him.

"Kiss him already," says the barista working the bar, and another whistles behind her.

Half the shop claps when Sam's hands span Chuck's head and draw him in.

«»

Ever conscious of his hermit crab's sensibilities, Sam doesn't spend more than three minutes accepting the well-wishes and congratulations of the random customers surrounding them. Sam tosses all their stuff in his bag and carries their coffees and puts them down on the roof to open Chuck's door and he drops to his knees there in the parking lot, where Chuck sits sideways on the seat and he grabs Chuck around the middle, buries his head against him. The car door falls against his back but he doesn't budge.

Chuck hugs him and pets his hair and tells him that the ring will protect him a little. There are sigils on the inside and the silver was cast under a snow moon, so, as a bonus, it might help with his slightly supernaturally-high body temperature--

Sam rises suddenly, like he can't hear anymore. He lets Chuck slide in and then closes the door, rounds the car and dumps his stuff in the back. Gets in the driver's side with the coffees and sets them down. Then he carefully draws Chuck up from his seat and into his lap. Once Chuck is there, he hands his coffee to him.

"Thanks."

Sam only nods, like, of course.

He waits for Chuck to fuel up and sets it aside for him again.

Then he starts crying.

"No," Chuck says, rising slightly, but Sam tugs him back down and pulls his body close.

Sam gasps. "I never thought someone would ask me. Never in a billion lifetimes. I don't know what the _fuck_ just went down in there. But I think one of the best things ever just happened to me in a _fucking Starbucks_."

"Sam," Chuck says, "Sammy," he gets one of the stray napkins from the center console and starts wiping his face. "If it's what you want, then you deserve to be asked every day."

"I only needed the one, thanks. I only need you. Fuck. You make me so goddamn happy," he palms Chuck's face again.

"I'm sorry it was," Chuck gestures towards the store.

"No, no. Totally fine. I don't care. It's so important I don't care where it happened, it just _happened_ ," he sobs.

Chuck can't do much else than pull Sam's head down and hold him until he calms.

He kisses Sam's hair and stays secure against him. Sam's phone rings and he hiccups a sigh. Doesn't move a muscle to answer it.

He rubs his hands up and down Chuck. "You just did that for me," he marvels.

Then.

"Significant other," he says, in awe. And he just keeps going. "Chuck. Sweetheart. Chuck fucking Shurley. Best ever. Best friend. Absolute fave."

"Go ahead," Chuck allows.

"Fiancé," he inhales-exhales. Chuck's whole body moves with the up-down of it.

"I get some words and you get others," Chuck says, shrugs, like it's a quirky thing they do.

"Yours are pretty cool. But mine are way romantic."

"Yeah. You're awfully good at that," Chuck agrees. "Hey?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for not even considering it for a full second. That was a cool reaction."

"Instinct. Hunter's instinct. Pounce at the first opportunity."

"Not really, cheeseball."

"No, not really. Probably more a survival instinct," he says, low and raw.

Chuck pushes his fingers into Sam's hair and draws him back. "Guess what?"

"What's up?" Sam's face is all red and wet.

Chuck grabs another napkin and kisses his mouth. "Just thought you should know? I asked Sam Winchester to marry me and he said 'yes.'"

"What a smart kid. That guy's going places."

"He saved the world and he's never getting rid of me."

"Not if he's half as good as they're always claiming. Stay here?" Sam asks, resettling Chuck on his lap. "I have to adjust my worldview for a while. Things just got brighter. Wider. I need your help to deal with this."

Chuck nods and assures him, "That's what I'm here for."

«»

Sam wakes up and scoots out of bed. Because of the hour, Chuck assumes he's gonna go running. He doesn't give it much thought. Goes back to sleep.

But in less than a half hour, Sam is back and pressing against him again.

"Turn me over," Chuck sighs.

Sam dutifully draws him to his other side and pulls him close. Kisses him.

"Oh, Sam," he clings. "Please tell me you didn't just go outside to happy-cry without me.

Sam sniffles, his face still wet in traces. "I went out. I donno. I thought I'd go run. But I called Dean instead."

Chuck wipes his face clear with his hands. It's still dark. He can't see.

"He told me to stop freaking out and go back to bed with you."

"Tell me why you were freaking out." He comes in closer and kisses him to get a read on how he's feeling.

Sam is shaking. He clings when Chuck tries to fall back.

"I told him. And. I told him and all I could think was. And I just. I asked him. What if I get you killed? And he said. I won't. And he sent me back to you."

Chuck has little doubt that there was a great deal more to his freakout. But if Dean told him the truths he needed to hear, then he knows his brother wouldn't fuck with this. Wouldn't lead Sam to more doubt. Sam is just taking a while to calm down.

His damp face is smiling where it's pressed into Chuck's shoulder. The ring is a subtle warm band on Sam's finger, against Chuck's back, up under his shirt.

"Love you so much," Sam breathes. "So fucking happy."

Chuck pets his head and asks him to please not go away again.

Sam nods. But it's not like Chuck drifts back off to sleep.

He waits for the morning light with Sam. They spend the time together viciously drowning each other's doubts. Cutting them out and crushing them. Killing them fucking dead. Because what good is living as a weapon if you let silent things hurt you from the inside?

He doesn't want that for Sam. For him to be worrying quietly, all to himself, about ruining them.

And Chuck knows, by now, where his real talent lies: in pulling these fears out of Sam's mouth and telling him what he is and isn't allowed to keep worrying about.

But he's never -- not anymore -- allowed to worry about them alone.

Sex in the morning sun and everything whispered in confidence. Even when they're just talking about the last documentary they watched.

"This is a fucking fantasy. No one gets to live like this. No one gets to wake up next to Sam Winchester like this in the morning," Chuck shakes his head.

"You're right," Sam nods. "It's all bullshit. I'm gonna disappear in three-" he kisses Chuck, "two-" he kisses Chuck, "one." He kisses Chuck.

"Wait, I fucked that up, lemme try again," he smiles. "Three-" he kisses Chuck...

«»

When they're driving away from lunch with Jody, Sam eventually lowers the radio and announces, "I've been thinking about this stuff and I just realized I'm not supposed to be doing that alone."

"Good catch. What are we thinking about?"

Sam reaches a hand over and wiggles his fingers, keeping his eyes on the road. "House stuff. Binding stuff. Thanks," he adds when Chuck takes his hand. "We have to start with a place to move our junk into while we build. I know Cas would be lenient about it, but if we stay in Kansas, we'll just end up hunting instead of working on the house."

Chuck clears his throat. "Should we find an apartment while we're here?"

"Maybe? I wanna go look at our dirt again."

Chuck shrugs. "Okay. What else did Dean think was buried there?"

"Who knows. The other Horseman rings, maybe."

"We should move grandpa's bones."

Sam flashes a confused smile over at him. "Grandpa?"

"Bobby's dad is buried behind the shed."

Sam is silently horrified.

"Right? Creepy. He eventually dug him up and salted the bones but I'd really prefer not to live with him still on the property."

"Uh. No kidding. Christ. Um. How did he die?"

"Well. Bobby wouldn't want you to know that," he shrugs. "Do you really need to know?"

Sam thinks for a minute. "You're giving me the option to hear the truth. Wow. Something else I'm not used to. Um. Yeah. Tell me. I wanna know."

"His dad smacked him and his mom around. He was a kid when he shot him. His mom never forgave him. Left when he was old enough to fend for himself."

Sam is silent and freaked again.

"I know," Chuck agrees. "Sucks."

"God. Poor old bastard," he shakes his head.

Chuck points the plot out when they make it to the property. He also remembers where a curse box was hastily made out of an Altoids tin and tossed in a shallow hole before another hunter could come calling to inquire after the wristwatch inside of it.

Sam unearths it and wraps it in one of the towels from the Colt's box. As he's packing everything away in the car, he grabs a notepad and comes up to dig a pen out of Chuck's pants pocket.

They settle on the steps that used to lead to the back door and make a list. Immediate needs. Requirements for later. Then Sam starts breaking down the different elements they'll need for construction. "Someone else to design the house - Charlie will know somebody. But, aside from the plumbing, Dean is gonna be able to lead us through the rest. He'll probably want to. He's brilliant with wiring and everything."

"Since we're building our own walls, we can have Cas properly ward the insides of them, too. So they never need touch-ups," Chuck points out.

"Yes," Sam taps the pen on his leg. "Good point. Professional warding. Devils traps preinstalled under the carpet."

"Floorboards," Chuck corrects.

Sam pauses, sits back to consider him. "Are we about to have a carpet versus hardwood fight?"

"You can have carpet in the bedroom, but not downstairs. Blood stains carpet."

"I." Sam stops. "I don't like popcorn ceilings or crown molding."

"Who gives a fuck? We're not gonna have to wash blood off the ceilings before the cops get here. If it's all the way on the ceiling, we got bigger problems."

Sam frowns. "I think I misread the direction of that conversation."

"You're the one building the house, you make those decisions. I just think carpet isn't a good idea where we can potentially be sewing people up. Also I need the kitchen windows to be facing east, but the rest is up to you," he flaps a hand. "Go nuts."

Sam considers this. "So you don't... you don't care?"

"I care, I just never expected to have a house of my own again. I also. You know," he reels a hand around, " _happen_ to know that you have had - at least in the past - rather elaborate fantasies about this kind of thing. So. It's your pet, it's your darling. Just. Windows in the kitchen-"

"East," Sam says. "That's all?"

"I like surprises, Sammy. And you like to give me stuff. So. Do... what you do."

"Were you-" Sam stalls out, pointing at him.

Chuck gives him a second.

"Were you gonna. I mean. Can I--" he stops. Looks back down at the notepad. At his hands on the notepad.

"You can do whatever you want for us," Chuck scoops his hand up. "I know, generally, where your thoughts would go on the subject and I know you'll ask me when you're not sure and that you'll offer for me to-"

"Were you gonna propose to me here, yesterday?"

Chuck blinks. "For a minute I thought I was. But for the most part I was gonna hang on to the ring and worry about asking or not asking for like maybe a few months. Maybe like ten years, I donno."

"Do you _always_ tell me the truth?" he seems to have sidetracked.

"Um. Maybe not in the strictest, most literal sense. I'd just. Rather humiliate myself or, you know, _choke and die_ than contribute to the plague of lies that have been piled on top of your poor shoulders. You're so." He slumps. "You're so tired from that. I don't want you to be tired unless it's because you had a crazy good day. I hate it when you're exhausted. I'm here to protect you from that shit now."

"I think I need to sit down."

"You _are_ sitting."

"Where the fuck did you come from? How the fuck did I get here?"

Chuck fiddles with the ring. "I think I'm rubbing off on you too much."

"So, just so we're clear here: you did NOT plan on saying any of that to me yesterday?"

"I wanted to be more ready to tell you about the binding. I wanted to stall some more." He wanted to have all the papers laid out and show Sam that he's smart, too, so they're a good match. He wanted to be as brilliant as Sam is. He wanted to show Sam that, if he said yes, he'd be marrying his equal. Then, maybe, Sam would agree to be bound to him. He wanted to be organized about it and sound intelligent and confident. Shit. He wanted to do it in private where no one would be there to judge him except Sam, who already knows he's a dingbat, and where the potential for public humiliation was lessened by a lack of witnesses when Sam inevitably took a step back from him and--

They talked about some of that this morning. How he's so sure he's not good enough but Sam makes him feel like _more_. Sam makes people feel so good. He makes Chuck feel like he's worth how he was saved. Saved as a human, on this world, saved from the angels and the demons. And saved over and over, since Sam found him again. Like, if his life is good enough for Sam to personally preserve? Maybe. Just maybe. Maybe there's something to that.

Then, he'd been in the car with Sam.  
They'd just looked at this dry, rusty, oil-stained, death-touched land that Sam says he wants to build their life on and.

He looked so fucking sure. Sam looked at him like he kinda wanted to just park there for the night and start living. Right at that moment.

"I wanted time. I wanted to get it right. I just thought I wanted to build my plan up to some kind of standard or something. But really? No. I didn't plan on saying it yesterday. I just suddenly _needed_ to. It just got to the point. I. I just," he shakes his head. "I just want to be your husband."

Sam blinks and curls over like he's gonna put his head between his knees. Or like he just got punched in the gut.

"You said I'm sitting down already, right?"

Chuck tugs at his hand. "You said yes so I kinda got the panic-worthy part over with. I just needed to do it. I was gonna start acting weird around you if I sat on it for very long. And I'd rather rip the bandage off and fail or be able to enjoy this as soon as-"

Sam stands and tugs him up and goes to close the fence, so Chuck helps, and they lock it from the inside. Then Sam urges him back toward the covered bay, where they parked. "Are y-"

Sam halts him next to the back door, opens the car, tosses him down across the back seat and climbs in over him.

"Say that again," he demands in an unsteady voice.

"Which?"

Sam kisses him. "You know which. I _need_ to hear it. _Give_ it to me."

"Just wanna be your husband," he kisses Sam back.

And gets attacked for it.

"Give it to me," Sam says when he pulls back for air. "Give me your words, all of your fucking words," he pants and spares a moment to arrange Chuck's legs, move between them and grind himself, hard in his jeans, against Chuck.

In the moments when he surges up, Chuck flinches, waiting for him to hit his head on the roof of the car. "Sam-" he starts to warn, but Sam only moans at the sound of his name and starts licking his way down Chuck's neck. His hands go all over and end up at Chuck's pants, opening them.

He pulls Chuck's shirt up with his teeth to nose at his skin while he draws him out of his boxers.

"Talk. Fucking _please_ ," Sam begs against his ribs.

He stops holding onto the seat and puts his hands in Sam's hair. "What do you need from me, Sammy? Do you wanna know what I want you to do to me? You know I'm your needy fucking bottom, right? You know that's what I am for you. Every time for you."

Sam moans.

"You know I want it," his hips struggle against the press of Sam's hands. He's planting open-mouthed kisses against Chuck's stomach and hips, pulling everything out of the way to apply his wet mouth to Chuck's thighs.

"I know, sweetheart," he kisses. "I know. I want to, I really wanna fill you up, but my hands are dirty, we're outside. I wouldn't ever, ever-" he kisses a promise "-ever risk your perfect ass. Later, I promise I will." He looks up and locks Chuck's eyes. "Right now I'm gonna keep my mouth busy while you talk to me."

"Oh god," he gasps when Sam simply kneels beside the car and bends to engulf him in his mouth.

Sam's moan runs pleasantly through him.

"You know I want this so hard, right? I want the place I have next to you forever. This dirt we own, Sam-"

Sam shudders and grips his thighs.

"This place _we have together_ , Sam. It's gonna be so good. With windows and a wide, wide bed for you to fuck me in and a tub where we're gonna find each other naked and wet. But this ground has got nothin' on the shit that's cemented me next to you. I'm gonna be hanging onto you for-fucking-ever. You'll never, ever have to be without me, I'll be right here for you. Sammy. You know where you're really always gonna come home to. Right here. Fuck. Right there--" he begs as Sam sucks him just perfectly, hands gripping his thighs. "That's your home," he pants when he gets air back in his lungs. "I'm your home and you're gonna take care of me and make me feel loved and lived-in. I love you. God. I love you and your amazing fucking heart. You're fucking devastatingly gorgeous. I can't believe you said yes to me. I'm-"

He yells without making any sense, garbled and giving up, doesn't want anything but to feel the warm, eager tongue on him, Sam's incredible mouth. He could be doing anything right now. His unshakable strength and his brilliant goddamn mind and he's just grabbing handfuls of Chuck's ass to swallow his cock deep, instead. Worshipping him in the back seat of their dusty, classic car, knees on the ground of their dented garage, locked inside the fence surrounding the withered property that's gonna be their spectacular fucking _home_.

"Please make me come please make me come," he chants, and Sam lets go to clamp Chuck's hands down on his head, mouth vibrating with moans around him. Chuck holds Sam's head only a little tighter, then lets loose, rides up into his mouth and loses it to the sound of Sam breathing hard and the way he gives up the fight to stop his hands from parting Chuck's ass.

Sam swallows and swallows and bobs his head and shudders, whining when he pulls away and Chuck's hands drop to scoop back under Sam's head and he feels really good about the slick, red look of his mouth, Sam's eyes focused on nothing but him. "Up here. Ride it out on me while I tell you about my favorite part," he pants.

Sam comes up to do as he's told and Chuck keeps him held low to kiss and to stop him from giving himself a concussion on the roof.

Sam lets his lips go, opens his pants and pushes their clothes aside to grind on top of him. "Please?"

Chuck kisses him again. "My favorite part is that you're letting me be who I am. Letting me be quiet so I can absorb you and adore you and now nobody's gonna interrupt that. I'm allowed to be all over you and fall asleep in your arms and rely on you because you wanna be my husband, too."

"OHGODYES," Sam's hips stutter against him.

"You wanna be happy with me. You need to be here. Be home."

"I'm home I'm home god I'm here I'm home," he babbles.

"You don't have to go anyplace else. You never have to look again. You found me."

"Gonna come," Sam nearly whispers, eyes staring but gone blind to everything except Chuck, under him and staring right back.

"Good," Chuck pets his head. "C'mere. Come on me while you're kissing me, Sammy."

Sam can't hold it together for another instant. Mouth frozen on a silent shout and driving his cock against the wet mess he made of Chuck's groin. He hangs there above Chuck and holds his hips while he comes on him. He shakes all over and then gasps to fill his lungs like resurfacing from water.

He looks about to drop, so Chuck cradles him between his thighs and draws him down on top of himself, takes his weight for as long as he can handle it. Sam won't allow it when he gets his breath back, afraid of choking his air off, but he can hold him close for now. It's nice feeling like he's strong enough to hold Sam together.

Eventually he moves. Cleans them both up with a shirt and rearranges their clothes. Winces while drawing Chuck to sit with him. "It got really hot in here."

"Little sweaty, yeah," Chuck pulls the handle and opens the door next to himself for some air circulation.

"God, I love your words. I love every single one of your fucking words. When are we gonna do this? Please tell me it's soon."

Chuck smiles. "We were working on our timeline before you decided you needed to hear me talk."

"Ugh. I always need to hear you talk. It's really hot in here, we should drive around. We should go back to Starbucks."

"Not the same one," he frets.

"I'll order for you, you can hide at the table."

"Oh. Thanks."

"I know how to take care of you."

"Yeah, you kinda do." He scoots out of the car. "The timeline depends, by the way. The stars have to align or some shit and Cas said you would understand what the instructions meant and how to get around them," he explains as they gather their stuff back up and go to get the gate. "I guess the angels were on order to prevent this from happening again and that's why they wiped the people out who practiced this ritual. They also ripped something out of the sky to prevent it from happening again. But Cas said astronomy is all math and you two can work it out."

"You're saying the angels destroyed a fucking star to prevent this from happening again? So this is, like. Big-time illegal."

"Yeah! Fun, right? They can't exactly fly down and stop us, now, though."

"Good point. Is Cas sure it's safe?"

"He's excited to make it work. He likes it when heaven's grand plans crumble. He thinks it's a cool idea."

"So." Sam kicks a rock across the dirt. "So. Can that. I mean. Is it. You made it seem like that would be the w- well, the wedding. Ceremony. The wedding ceremony. Like. Dual-purpose."

"I mean, it can be," Chuck scoops up the notepad from where they were sitting. He taps the pen against it. "Do you want it to b-"

"Yeah."

Chuck pauses. "You might change your mind. After reading it. I mean, it's not dangerous, it's just. Rough. It'll be kinda hard, it won't be a picnic. It might not be. Romantic," he shrugs.

"That's okay." Sam comes closer to draw him in by his side and they walk up the steps they'd been sitting on. They walk to the edge of the foundation, where it drops off, caution tape fluttering in the wind. Everything was bulldozed, swept up. Leveled. There's a huge hole that used to be the basement. The stairs are gone. The panic room is down there in the charred mess somewhere, further in the ground. "Think there's a ladder in the maintenance bay?"

Chuck shrugs.

Sam does, too, and tugs him back off toward the car.

He's quiet until after he gets back in the seat from locking the gate behind them. Puts the car in drive.

"It would be alright with you? To get an apartment up here? So we can build? Move our stuff up gradually, and whatever?"

"Yeah. Do you wanna get it, like, half-way, though? So you're not that far from Dean yet?"

Sam takes a deep breath and grips the steering wheel, re-grips, stretches his fingers. "I love you. Yeah, that would be. That would be a good idea. Or like 60% of the way up."

He lets Sam adjust to the idea for a minute. "I know you wanna do this and I know, at the same time, you're worried you're gonna miss him. But it's not that far and Dean loves to drive and he loves you and he also needs to build his own house. I mean. You know what I mean. With his kids and convince them to stay with him because that's what he wants. He wants you to stay but he wants that, too, and. Shit. Even Winchesters have to make compromises, it turns out."

Sam sniffs. Nods. "I know. It's not all-or-nothing anymore. I know. It's just. Gonna take some getting used to." He needs a few deep breaths. It's a good thing they've been practicing.

Both the deep breaths and the compromises.

«»

They end up in Norfolk, renting under an alias with reasonably good credit. Sam won't allow a downgrade from Chuck's last apartment. He won't let him live in another dump.

They have neighbors. Two women who live together across the hall.

Sam answers the door when they knock the first time.

The taller of the two presents a McDonalds bag.

"Hi. Welcome to the family," she says, and the woman next to her punches her in the side.

"Welcome to the complex," she corrects.

Sam blinks. "Uh. Thanks." He hesitantly takes the bag when it's offered up again.

"We can't bake, but we thought we'd get you pie."

Sam looks in the bag and laughs. Pulls a boxed apple pie out. It looks like the bag is full of little boxes. "Um. Wow. Thanks," he shakes himself, drops the pie back into the bag and offers his hand. "I'm Sam, by the way."

"Nice to meet you," the taller says. "Sandra. This is my sister Kate."

"Well. Um. There's," Sam points toward where Chuck is hiding and he feels compelled to hide _more_. "You have to promise not to bite, or something, he gets nervous."

"Oh," Kate shakes herself. "Totally, we don't bite, promise."

"This is Chuck. Sweetheart?" he looks back, eyes pleading.

Oh, god. Sam wants to be in good with his neighbors. Of fucking course.

He sighs and slumps and edges out from the kitchen, squeezes into the doorway with Sam, snug to his side.

"Hi," Kate waves.

"Are you guys married?" Sandra asks.

"Uh. Almost," Sam aw-shucks shrugs.

"Aw," Kate smiles like she thinks they're cute or something. And, okay, Chuck thinks, maybe they're fucking cute, thank you, Kate.

Sandra offers her hand out again.

Chuck clears his throat and shakes her hand. "Hi."

"So, we're across the hall if you ever need anything. I know they didn't post the new code to get into the mail room after-hours, but it's 5599 this month."

"Oh, thanks," Sam says.

"Kate still works at the Hy-Vee, so you'll probably see her down there. And I work at the Quest lab so I hope I never have to see you!" Sandra jokes.

"That's nice of you, but Sam is very accident prone," he aims a _look_ up at him.

Kate snorts.

Later, Sam thanks him for implying to the neighbors that he fucking bleeds everywhere.

"Stop getting tied to chairs and I'll take it back."

«»

Sam knows they won't be there forever, but he's very pleased to have windows in the apartment. It's on the top floor and they have to hoof all their groceries and the occasional box up three flights of stairs, but Sam feels more comfortable being able to leave Chuck in the quiet and the light to write while he goes to meet Dean and wait for deliveries of materials and lift heavy stuff and swing hammers and whatever. Not that Chuck doesn't contribute. He can do some of the work.

But sometimes this house-building stuff is burly, tall-people work?  
And that makes Sam nervous about him. So he doesn't need to be underfoot all the time.

Also it's probably important to let Dean help his brother build a house.

Dean didn't have to build his own house. But he lives a lot of special life moments through other people and this can be one of them.

He can build the house that protects Sam.

He can make everything meet or exceed code. He's like an anti-Canadian Mike Holmes.

Sam wakes him up long before dawn to come help him one day. What he could possibly do is beyond him, this early off. Maybe assist with getting the permits or something.

But he goes. He'll always go when Sam asks.

He's glad he did.

The yard is totally cleaned out. A new, permanent fence has been erected with good locks. All the crap they could find has been dug up out of the yard. Including Ed Singer. And the maintenance bay has been gutted. There's an overflowing dumpster outside the gates. Wide doors to them, to allow large vehicles in. A shipment of pipe sits covered, under a tarp in the shade.

It feels better. It feels like they're starting. It'll still take something crazy, like 9 goddamn months. More with hunts in between. But it's.

Kinda beautiful in the sunrise.

They got breakfast burritos to eat. They sit on the bare concrete steps with their food and Sam's somebody's little brother, so he has to have his turn doing everything.

He gives Chuck a ring and proposes.

«»

A few days after Chuck's birthday, him and Sam and Dean pause work on the house. Everybody meets to go on a hunt together and it's the last, late, hot, high days of summer.

Chuck has been throwing his baseball bat in the car lately. Ever since it's been getting so hot. He just hasn't had the time to use it. But today, the hunt is stalled out and it's too hot to go anyplace, even with the sun setting, so he goes outside to the big motel cooler and gets a huge bucket of ice.

He drags Sam outside and tells him he's the pitcher.

Sam gives him a weird look. "Okay."

Chuck hands over the bucket.

"Okay, actually, I'm confused?"

Chuck raises the bat. "You pitch the ice at me. I hit the ice."

"Is. Is this seriously what the bat has been about this whole time?"

"Yes." He crosses the parking lot a good distance and gets into his stance, hitting left-handed. He swings a few times. Flexes.

"One at a time?"

"Yeah. Go for it."

Sam's good at this. He picks nice, solid hunks of ice. His throws are tentative at first, but then he's gotta shrug his shoulders and push his hair back and get serious. Because Chuck's really awesome at bat.

The ice pings and explodes on the metal bat. Sam pauses after a while. Looks baffled that this is actually fun. The satisfying _ping_ of the bat. The spray of cool ice off the metal. Then he finds a really good frozen-together hunk and lets it fly. Chuck makes it explode and rain down and one shard goes flying real far across the nearly-empty lot.

Chuck played, up through high school until a teammate kicked the crap out of him after practice, when he saw him walking home. He didn't say a word, just never showed up to play baseball again.

It was a habit that stuck.

In pain?  
Just go away and don't come back. Just disappear.

He got tackled on their last hunt with Jody and Alex and rolled his ankle, cracked some ribs.

He let Sam take care of him for two days before they drove down to the bunker to have Cas fix him up. Because Sam praises his work and loves on him and worships his body when he's hurt. (And then two days of watching Chuck in pain was all Sam could handle. Sam with his long, storied history of broken bones and drained veins. He knows what it is to really hurt and he can't watch even a fraction of that happen to Chuck. He is the sweetest person on this god-awful planet.)

Bad things come with good things. Because things hurt and when they don't anymore, you're supposed to remember what it's like to feel this good.

If he didn't go through three solid days of sheer misery, three days of detox and the jittery months following, he wouldn't be building a house with Sam.

And he certainly wouldn't be looking forward to whatever possible beating may be delivered by fate when he helps Sam secure himself in the binding ceremony.

Sam takes a turn. He's not as practiced at batting. Chuck pitches left-handed, too, and the engagement ring that Sam insisted on giving him freezes pleasantly cold with the ice in his palm.

Dean wanders out of his and Castiel's room to see what the weird noise is. He gets a turn at bat. He's slightly better than Sam with his ticky arm.

Then, eventually, everybody wanders out with bags of food and beers and sodas and they all take turns, the ice machine chugging away to refill itself near the complex office. Everybody with ice-speckled hair, gratefully cooling off and happily talking smack.

Dean and Chuck lean against the Impala, watching Sam pitch to Krissy, her ponytail lit red in the fading light, laughing, happy. All of them so weirdly... good. The hunt isn't even over. The gore hasn't even come. The guns aren't even out. Claire climbs to sit on the hood next to Chuck and shares her M&Ms.

They're all gonna sweep in and conquer this thing and it will be the easiest hunt they ever heard of. There are fucking ten of them here. Dean, Cas. Sam, Chuck. Charlie, Claire, Alex, Josie, Krissy, Aiden. They said Garth is an hour away if they really need him. Charlie says she's been talking (or shamelessly flirting) with this woman who contacted them about a book, Tracy Bell. Jody is always on the end of the line if they need her. That disturbingly peppy one, Donna, is, too.

And of all people, Chuck ends up thinking about someone he never met. A while back, Sam told him about Jess Moore. Though he knew everything Sam said, it was important to hear him say it out loud.

If there's one thing that Chuck is sure to fail to do, it's to be the thing that relieves Sam of this life. He won't ever be completely removing Sam from the influence of The Job. But he can't regret it. He can be here with Sam. Who knows if either of them would have really made it outside of The Life.

If it were Jess. If it were anybody else. This moment wouldn't have happened for Sam. Maybe it would have been something else just as good or maybe it would have been better. Maybe not. But, right at this moment, he has this. Here.

Chuck is learning to trust himself with Sam's happiness. He might just be the right guy for the job.

Jess didn't have to die like that. Sam didn't have to go through all this pain to get here. Life is awful.

It just doesn't have to _stay_ that way.

«»

The first hint should have been his Starbucks card.

The barista shook his head and insisted there was nothing on it. There should have been fourteen bucks, at least.

Sam only ran up from plugging in his laptop at one of the tables to dig up cash. Chuck just had enough for the tip.

The second hint should have been the lights. He could've sworn he saw flashing out of the corner of his eye.

When the cell service cut out and Sam had to wander the parking lot to get ahold of Dean. Well. He really should've known by then.

He's seen this plot roll out before.

The fourth sign was irrefutable.

Sirens and vests and guns and actual, real-life federal fucking agents.

Sam was still walking the parking lot and probably figured there was no way in hell they were coming for him, legally dead twice over.

He was right.

"Chuck Shurley?" asked the guy on point, safely behind his gun while Chuck was still stirring the damn sugar out from the bottom of the cup.

"You're fucking kidding me with this," he dared to take a swig before answering because his priorities are kind of messed up and that's likely why his head got slammed against the table, the cup skidding off the other side, ice and coffee everywhere. (On second thought, maybe he _didn't_ leave enough of a tip.)

Hard to pin down if the headache is from the forced faceplant or the caffeine deprivation.

He's driven all the way out to a division office and then he's in interrogation for eight hours.

It's long enough to develop one of those antagonistic relationships with the agent in charge. His own, personal version of Henriksen. Chuck could be channeling Dean for what a smart fucking mouth he's got today but, in all honesty, he doesn't need the help.

Bit cockier than ever before, too, because he knows that somebody's coming for him. And it can go the hard way, or the easy way, but somehow it'll end with him shrugging and smiling at this douchecanoe, while he rides away next to Sam. It's an inevitability.

It's Charlie who shows up in a sharp suit, flashing paperwork from Interpol, ready to take him up for the murder of a Canadian national near Ottawa. She makes it look like she's got better jurisdiction and challenges the validity of Chuck's citizenship to make her claim.

"Yeah, uh," he finally says after as much silence as he can bear (only about ten minutes, in truth, he's been causing as much trouble as possible), "I'll only talk to the Mounties."

"Of course you will you rat _fuck_ ," the special agent nearly leaps at him, held back by his colleagues, his patience gone and ready to strangle the shit out of Chuck. Never managed to squeeze a fucking drop out of him that wasn't blatant fiction.

Charlie explains that her suspect won't be treated with such hostility, thank you, and she does every ounce of paperwork they attempt to drown her with before releasing Chuck into her custody.

"Am I your best man yet?" she says out of the corner of her mouth as she marches him toward her small army of waiting "agents."

"You are. Congratulations. There's no place in the ritual for a best man but I'm crammin' you in there."

Dean is clearly the one driving the van, though his incursion gear obscures his face as much as Cas or Claire or Krissy.

"Lookit all these short Canadians," he says before Special Agent Asshole removes his cuffs so Charlie can put hers on him.

"Please put him away for a long fucking time," he says to her, and backs off to watch Chuck get loaded into the back, cross-armed and self-satisfied even if he didn't get to claim the collar.

Chuck shrugs, flashes one final smile at him, just to watch him snarl again.

"Oh, this Canadian makes up for all the others," he comments as he's settled next to a black clad figure, taller than the rest, who is definitely Sam.

Sam only barely waits for Krissy to pull the door closed before he's yanking the cuffs off, dumping his helmet, and making out with Chuck, fingers careful and light over the bruised side of his face.

"It's officially our wedding day in four hours," he breaks away to complain. "You couldn't wait to get arrested until you were actually a Winchester? You literally could not fucking wait?" he shakes his head and holds Chuck's still in his palms.

Chuck rubs his wrists. "You gotta earn it, right?"

Dean takes off his helmet so he can drive. He snorts, looking at them in the rear-view. "Go big or go home."

"No kidding," Charlie says. "Chuck they have you cold on four cases in the states and the dead hunter in Canada. They have your fingerprints everywhere. Your identity-- well, all of them, really. They're busted. One and all. We're gonna have to put this van over a cliff and declare you dead or something."

Sam is on his mouth again.

"Jesus, Sam, let him breathe," Claire laughs.

When Sam does let him breathe he falls back against the wall of the van. "Shit."

"Those feds are lucky Sam didn't murder every last one of 'em," Krissy says. She puts up two fingers close together. "He's been a liiiiittle hard to deal with since this morning," she pulls her hair out of the bun she tied it up in to conceal it in the helmet. "Kept his head, though. Kinda."

"Speaking of," Sam motions toward Cas. "Do something about _his_ head."

Cas pulls his gloves off and sets his BFG aside. "May I?" Chuck nods and Cas touches his fingers against his temple so the throbbing goes away. His face feels better, a bone zipping back into shape.

He flexes his jaw. That's so weird.

"Can we go for burgers in our SWAT gear?" Dean asks Charlie.

" _After_ we put the van over a cliff, yeah. Someplace with milkshakes."

«»

They did decide on the next day. It will be best according to Sam, with the moon in the right place and whatever else. They have Cas to perform the ceremony and they have witnesses.

Dean wanted to be Sam's best man, even though that's not really necessary. It's not like it's a traditional wedding and it's not like they can get married on the books.

Well. Especially now that Chuck can no longer use his name anywhere.

He had money left in his bank account. He already bought Sam's wedding ring, but he was gonna use the rest to put stained glass in one of the windows. Kinda like Bobby used to have in the stairwell in the old house.

He wanted the windows to be special for Sam. Out of the whole ordeal, that's really the only thing that makes him truly sad.

Now Charlie has to set him up with a new alias and new accounts if he wants to make money from writing. And, at that point, it's just easier to commit credit fraud. Focus his writing on the job, instead. On the journals and textbooks he's planning to write with Sam.

So that was the breaking.  
That and the bone that fractured in Chuck's cheek when the fed slammed his face on the table.

Not as bad as Chuck expected.

But they get away from the city and into a motel for the night and Sam is a fucking wreck.

"I can't believe I let them take you away from me. Who knows how fucking far they could have taken you. Who knows how many people we'd have to send in there before we got you out," he shakes his head and presses Chuck to the bed and climbs over him and sits back and laments. This is normally Chuck's shtick, to come up with a million worst-case scenarios, but Sam seems to have taken the reins. "They drove you all the way up here. What if they'd had press waiting? What if we they'd pulled the Patriot Act on you and just thrown you in a dark cell without putting you on the records?"

Chuck attempts to soothe him or draw his hands down but they keep digging into his own hair, clutching his head.

"I was outside and I was just like. They must be busting some employee theft ring. Or one of the kids sitting there using the WiFi for downloads. Or whatever. I just knew that nobody in any of those cars was looking at me. And then suddenly there you are in the front window with a gun in your fucking face and that-" Sam seethes, jaw clenched, breathing through his teeth. He grips the bedsheets and then takes a breath. Releases them. "He slammed you on the table so hard it was slanted after. I didn't know what to do. I knew if I pulled a gun out we'd be on the fucking news. I knew that if I went at them, they'd have at least two guns on me before I took them all down. I had to. Oh my god. I had to let them take you from me." He digs his hands into his hair again and pulls.

Chuck starts shaking his head and grabs at Sam's arms until he lets go. "I'm okay."

"After Cas fixed you. After _hours_ in fucking custody. We didn't teach you how to escape-"

"Sam, I've seen you guys escape. That wasn't something I could have gotten away with in that particular room. Not on--" he's about to say, not on his own, as one man, without backup. Because Sam and Dean could worm out of those scenarios together. But he can't remind Sam he was in there all alone. "You did good not fucking with them. You did good calling everybody in and-"

"They drove you far away! We're by fucking Chicago! We were supposed to do this at home! We weren't supposed to get married on the road out of a fucking motel room, I-"

"Sam." He puts up his hands because Sam's starting to lose it so hard that he's gonna lose it, too.

Sam shuts up and stops. Swallows and breathes and looks around. Blinks.

He gathers himself and moves back, stands up. He tugs his shirts and jeans off and draws Chuck up and helps him, too. They turn off the lamps and get into bed and Sam wraps them tight in the sheets, then himself tight around Chuck.

His breathing is still uneven where it falls against Chuck's head.

"I didn't mean to yell."

"I know that. I was just. You're scared again and it's making me scared. This isn't an indicator of what's to come, Sam. This was the spell knowing that we have all the altar cloths and stones and swords and stupid fucking chimes and shit and that we're gonna do a spell tomorrow that's gonna fuck up heaven's plans forever. This is a ripple in existence and it just blasted through us."

He takes a breath to prove he can. He waits for Sam to do the same.

"It moved past us. And, see? We got it over with."

"It broke you," he laments.

"Cas fixed it. If anybody else in the world is just as bent on telling heaven to suck it, I wanna send out a last-minute invite to them."

"We didn't do invitations. Or tuxes. Am I even marrying you right?"

Chuck lets that sink in probably more than he should. Sam isn't saying this is wrong. Sam's words are as jumbled as his insides right now. He's sorry and he's sad and he's nervous and he feels like he should have put a bullet in each of those agent's hearts rather than let them touch Chuck. But he held back and did the smart thing instead of the angry thing.

"You got me back alive and in one piece and in less than 24 hours," Chuck says. "I want you to do something for me."

"Anything. Tell me."

"I want you to realize you did a good job today. I want you to realize that I put you in this position by making you marry me through this weird ceremony instead of like normal. And we just got punched and you rolled with it. I want you to tell yourself you did a good job."

Sam won't do it. He is silent.

Chuck works his hands out of their bundle and he holds Sam's head. "You did such a good job. Charlie brought all the stuff. Claire and Krissy and the people we love are here. Will you please still marry me tomorrow? I don't wanna wait to go home. I don't wanna wait to get to the bunker. Will you please-"

"Yes." Sam closes his eyes and melts into Chuck's hands and all the tension flows out of him so he's soft and pliant and Chuck can worm out of the sheets and rearrange them and hold Sam's head close and kiss his hair.

"You still wanna do it, right?"

Sam shrugs. Nods. Still sad.

"We could do a second one, if you want. A 'regular' one?"

"I know you don't buy that shit. You don't think it's important."

"Sam, if it's important to you, it's important to me."

"I donno. Maybe. I'm sorry. This is probably. We're probably gonna do this whole three-hour weird, long thing tomorrow and it'll probably feel like getting married even more than muggle marriage. It'll probably be good. I'm probably just being a shitbag."

"Oh, now, that's not something I can let you get away with. I'm about to tie myself to this guy on the fucking atomic level, I can't let you call him a shitbag," he turns Sam's face up to him. "Tell me a story, Sam."

"God. What kind? We haven't told nearly enough stories lately."

"Tell me about how you're in a tux and you're in the one room and I'm in the other. And Dean is driving you nuts and fixing your tie over and over."

"Because, let's face it, Dean would be an awful best man," Sam picks up. "I would have had to crush his dreams and tell him I don't wanna do some epic TJ run the night before. Because I couldn't care less about that shit. I'd be, like. Busy being nervous. And he wouldn't shut up long enough to let me remember my... vows or whatever."

"And I've got Charlie on my side, I guess? And, well, it's a muggle wedding. So they made us do that thing where we weren't allowed to see each other the night before."

Sam makes an absolutely disgusted sound.

"See? You don't like this story very much."

"And standing at the front and like. SHEER PANIC sitting there in my stomach wondering if you're coming or not. Wondering if you changed your mind because you had a night alone and you remembered that you like the quiet more than you like me," Sam droops.

"Picture me," Chuck slumps. "Figuring you had that time alone to convince yourself this was gonna be amazing only to have dumpy little me tripping toward you down the aisle. Would I even have to walk down the aisle? Is that mandatory?"

"I don't know. I guess I haven't been to a real wedding. I don't need a real wedding. With you thinking the worst of yourself without me there to straighten you out."

"See, so fuck that."

Sam sighs. "Yeah, I guess. Fuck that. We've had better stories."

"What about this one," Chuck thinks for a moment. Then he moves. Crawls over Sam and straddles him. "Say my name."

"Ch-"

Chuck kisses him. And hangs on. And keeps kissing him.

"Don't go today," he finally says. "Don't go today."

"Oh my god," Sam sighs relief. "I know this story. I can do this story. Please?"

So Chuck kisses him again.

"I know how this story goes. I end up building a house to put you in and Claire calls us every weekend asking if her room is ready yet."

"Yeah, when did she become our child, by the way? I was for sure intending for her to bother Dean and Cas but she just keeps showing up."

Sam laughs at him. Fucking finally. "She likes you. She likes bugging you. She didn't expect to love you so much." Sam goes silent and stares at him. "You know. Kinda like me. But I'm the best at it."

"You really are," Chuck nods. "So your engagement ring is so wide I got a thinner band for your wedding ring and?? Guess what."

"What?"

"It's made out of meteorite."

"Oh my god, that's so cool."

"Sorry, I didn't give a shit about waiting to tell you. But you'll see it, Cas has it. It's awesome. You'll get it tomorrow and you'll see how cool it looks. It's nifty that we get to do the ring thing twice."

"Yeah. Charlie told me they were supposed to match or some shit and I was just like, whatever. Matching is for muggles. Surprises are better. Isn't it supposed to be a present? I mean. Yeah. Different is better."

Chuck settles on top of Sam. "Now that you're in a better mood you should make out with me."

Sam strokes the backs of his thighs. "Do you wanna know what your ring is like?"

"Only if you wanna tell me. I'm okay with surprises. I'll get it later. In, like, hours now. Just hours."

"Chuck."

"What?"

"I know you let me ask you when I gave you your engagement ring. I wanna do it again. Probably at least once a month."

"'Kay. Go ahead."

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes. Barring further incarceration."

"I'm sorry they ruined Starbucks for you today," he's frowning and looking genuinely upset.

"There are other Starbucks locations, Sam. Would you like a list? At least it wasn't the one by home."

Sam keeps frowning. Seems to consider him for a moment.

An extended moment.

"Are you sure you wanna be bound to me? For this thing? I'm sure I want this. But I think you're doing it just to make me safe."

"Is there a better reason?"

"You don't need to be bound to me in return. No one tried to crawl into your head," he points out.

"No. You're right. I just got it forced on me."

Sam cringes. "But. That probably can't happen to you again."

"Sam. You can bind yourself to somebody else. If you want."

"But do _you_ -"

"Yes. That's actually what I meant when I said 'yes' a minute ago. I meant yes to all of it. Yes. If you could somehow escape your vessel right now and I could be filled up with all your light and grace," he motions like a rather uppity, flappy set of wings, "I'd still be saying yes to you. Because of who you are. Because you're Sam and you save everyone and I might just get the incredible honor of saving you."

Sam gathers up his hands.

"Are we done being sappy?"

"Not nearly," Sam says. "I've got a few decades left in me."

"Watch us both end up crying tomorrow and Dean making fun of us."

Sam smiles. "Watch Dean end up crying, dude."

«»

Someone very quietly breaks into their motel room a little after sunrise. Chuck only knows this because he's suddenly caged in by Sam, under the covers, and--

Then he sighs and just handles Chuck onto his side and crowds against his back, at ease again.

Chuck is blinking the sleep out of his eyes and, in all honesty, Claire pops up beside the bed like a fucking cartoon. Like she crawled across the floor to get there. Like she ought to be wearing green paint and a ghillie suit.

Chuck only sighs and sinks back into Sam. Tucks half his face back under the blanket.

"Can I borrow your car?"

"No," they say.

"I can't take the Impala."

Sam nods against Chuck's head. "Yeah. Because you'll wake up dead tomorrow. Not even Cas will be able to protect you."

She digs in her pocket. Presents her license. "It's not a learner's permit anymore. Ask Jody, it's not even forged, it's for real."

"Where are you going, anyway?" Sam asks.

She finally stands and turns and pushes at the sheets to shove Chuck's legs back and sits, indifferent to his knees.

"Just let me borrow the car. I'll be back really quick."

"We have a busy day today," Sam says. "Can you let us sleep just like 45 minutes more? We'll go together."

Chuck closes his eyes and lets them talk around him.

"You can sleep for 45 minutes while I'm out. If you're here, you won't miss the car for 45 minutes," she reasons.

"You already asked Charlie, didn't you?"

"She's busy. She's running around trying to find a good 'space' or something," Claire says with her 'what a crock of shit' voice.

Sam shrugs. "She thinks it's important. You can go if Cas goes with you."

"But Cas is out with Charlie! Wait-- did he already go back to sleep?"

"Yeah, he does that," Sam loosens up an arm and a hand comes up to cover Chuck's ear. " _Don't_ ," comes the muffled warning. " _Do not_ poke him."

"Come on," she wheedles. "Just. I'll be right back. I won't make any trouble. I have to buy something. It's not like I'm asking you for money or anything."

"You're not pickpocketing to get the money you need, either, because if you get arrested while you're out with the car, we're not gonna spend the day sneaking you out. We already busted that move this week. We'd have to leave you in the clink for a few days."

"So you're saying I can borrow your car as long as I don't steal??"

Sam's voice goes especially quiet. "Yes. Fine. Go. The keys. Yeah. There, over there. Go. Close the door."

She sneaks out quieter than she came in.

Sam takes the hand off Chuck's ear.

"Pretty sure we have at least 25 minutes to fuck around, if you're still with me."

Chuck blinks. Looks back. Sam turns him back over and kisses him.

"Twenty five?"

"Yeah. I don't wanna break your shower record just 'cause you don't wanna get caught, though."

"You just feel cheated when I make you come that fast."

Sam smiles. "I really do. It's unfair."

Chuck considers him. "I'm starting to get nervous about the center-of-attention stuff," he admits in a whisper. "I get to do this, today. I get to protect you. It's only. I feel weird in front of them, doing the whole thing."

"I know," Sam matches his tone. "I do, too. But I also kinda need it to be the elaborate ceremony it is so it feels official. I get it, though, hermit crab. I know it's hard for you and you wanna do it anyway. I know," he kisses Chuck. "I know. So then. What do you need from me? To get you ready?"

Chuck presses himself in tight. "You gotta hold me. You gotta tell me you're not gonna change your mind. You gotta promise to tell me if you do. I sound so fucked up."

"No. You sound nervous. You sound like you think this is too good to be true. But you gotta remember why we have to do it: because the supposed _benevolence_ of heaven wouldn't stop poking its nose into our fucking business. So this is a big, fat fuck-you to them and anyone else who wants to get in our faces. To tell them we're getting tied together and we're also _getting tied together_ and so stay out of our damn heads. We could be boring and romantic and have a muggle ceremony," Sam shrugs. "But they fuckin' pushed us. This is us pushing back. Both of us. Because I'm looking at you right now and I don't see you turning away from me. And I won't be turning away from you. Good?"

Chuck breathes. "Yeah, good. Now hang on to me."

Sam does.

Chuck must fall back to sleep because it smells like coffee when Sam tenses up around him a second time.

She's crawling on the floor again. He hears her put something on the nightstand.

"Chuuuck," she whispers.

"I did not sign up for this," he says into Sam's neck.

Sam drops back to sprawl out to the side and stretch. Chuck flops to his back, too.

Claire turns one of the cups she put down and points. "Soy coffeeeeee."  
She turns the other up and takes off the lid and wafts it in Chuck's face like a wine cork. "Real coffeeeeeee."

Sam's arm arcs into view and he takes up the one marked soy.

Claire gives up on him and stands up to bounce and clunk down on the end of the bed with her peppermint mocha.

Chuck sighs.

He worms his way up and sits at the headboard. Takes the coffee and reapplies the lid and tests it. It's sugared up right.

Sam sits next to him, the blankets pulled up to their laps, the both of them facing Claire.

"This is like family breakfast," Sam comments.

Chuck frowns over at him, like, _Why would you give her ideas? Seriously?_

She shrugs. "I would have bought croissants but I only had enough for these. Happy wedding day. I can't really do much more than this for presents."

Oh, no.  
Why does she have to be such a delightful little shit?

He fiddles with the lid and avoids her eyes. "Thanks, Claire."

"Thanks," Sam agrees.

They definitely don't sneak a really, awfully, sappy look at each other.

«»

Dean takes Claire, Krissy, Chuck, and Sam to real breakfast while Cas and Charlie look for a place sacred enough for the ceremony. There's a Sam n' Dean conversation happening at one corner of the table and a "Krissy with a K" conversation at the other because Claire has decided she's uncomfortable with the number of Cs in their group.

"At least you're not technically sharing a name," he tosses in. "Charlie? Chuck?"

Krissy laughs. "At first I thought you were talking about last names and I was like 'watch out,' 'cause that seems to be a sensitive subject with Dean right now."

She leans across the table to whisper at him. "He keeps bitching about you and Sam and alliteration or something?"

"Oh. I threatened to convince Sam to take my name."

Claire's eyes go wide. "God, that would be funny," she hisses.

Krissy shrugs confusion.

"Shurley," she points at Chuck.

Krissy gasps, claps her hands together once, "Shit. Sam Shurley. That's funny. Sorry," she waves at him. "I never even asked your full name."

Chuck shrugs.

"That's 'cause we're all just, like, unofficial Winchesters," Claire shrugs.

"Don't tell Dean it's unofficial, you'll hurt his feelings," Chuck moves his fork around and sets it down again and Sam literally turns to full-body frown at him because he's not fooled by it.

Chuck slumps.

Sam switches their plates out and he doesn't ask him to eat, he just says, "Try again," and eats Chuck's pancakes, instead.

This omelet has certified fucking spinach in it. What the fuck.

Sam steals the salsa that Dean's not using and dumps it on top of the half omelet left on the plate.

Oh. Okay.  
That's actually edible.

"Who's your best man?" Claire asks, "I don't even understand how this is working."

"There's not really best men or anything. It's this ancient ceremony. Cas is gonna do it in the original language so it's done right."

"So... it's not even really a wedding?" Krissy asks.

Chuck shrugs and chews. "We kinda just decided it's good enough for it. I mean. It might have been the best approximation of this culture's concept of marriage, anyway."

Sam is still speaking with his brother but his hand finds Chuck's knee under the table, almost as if it were a mindless habit.

Chuck loses track of his side of the conversation while he pulls out his phone and sends a text.

**We need to have premarital sex one more time. You just made one of my greatest fantasies a reality.**

«»

Luckily, Cas requests Dean's presence. He takes Krissy with in the Impala and Claire is gonna be the one in charge of making sure Sam and Chuck don't just throw jeans on and look half-presentable.

Sam finally checks his phone when they get back to the motel.

"Claire? How much trouble would it be to get you to go get Chuck a nicer shirt?"

She looks up from digging in their fridge to give him a weird look.

"It's just that I'm worried Chuck is about to start spinning out with the panicking, I can tell."

She nods. "I can borrow the car?"

"Yeah," Sam turns to his bag. "I've got cash, too."

She looks at Chuck with a critical eye. "He doesn't even look worried. Are you literally paying me to fuck off so you guys can have sex?"

"Will it make you go away for an hour?" Chuck asks.

"Trust me. It may seem like a honey badger thing right now, but he's actually about four minutes away from total meltdown," Sam insists.

She narrows her eyes. "Charlie's supposed to call when we should drive over. In like a half hour."

Upon hearing this, Chuck feels himself clunk down onto the mattress.

Sam makes a ghastly face and starts to usher her out, digging the Buick's keys from his pocket.

" _Oh_ , you were _serious_ ," is all he hears before her and Sam step outside and he's left alone in the room.

So, actually, he was hoping for the sex, he really was. But it turns out he's like a half hour away from getting cosmically bound to his favorite person in existence and he might need to cry, instead.

Sam comes back and shuts up the room, draws the flimsy curtains.

Quietly sits next to Chuck on the bed.

His fingers fall to the middle of Chuck's back and draw gently down.

"What was the fantasy?" he asks almost conversationally.

Chuck has to clear his throat. "One of the bigger ones. But I didn't consider getting married to you on a regular weekday morning to be a fantasy so much as a complete impossibility and I just remembered that impossibility is seriously imminent," he nods to himself, like, _well done, you're a fucking genius_.

Sam's voice holds his smile in it. "What was the fantasy, sweetheart?"

Chuck looks down at his own knee.

"Becoming your habit. Being a touchstone," he says with reverence that chokes him. Sam's hand curves over his knee again. He watches it happen. He can't fucking _breathe_. The words just rattle out of him, "Fuck. I fucking love you."

Sam only responds by scooting closer.

"Chuck. I lied about something."

"It's gonna have to be something big to shake me off," he warns, breathy.

"We didn't have to do it today. There were a couple other days it would have worked. But. I needed it to happen on a Tuesday." Sam handles his head and urges him to look up at him. "Chuck I had to do this on a stupid fucking Tuesday just in case. Because if I ever get stuck reliving a day over again-"

"Oh my god. I'm going everywhere with you for the rest of your life. Oh my Sam. Oh my fucking Sam," his hands scrabble at him desperately until Sam's own, blessedly big and warm and beautiful, come up and touch down on his neck and calm his sudden shaking.

"I need to be quiet with you for a half hour. Then I wanna go get married, okay?"

"Absolutely," Chuck gasps, sweet relief.

Sam draws him in to sit on his lap and they kiss. And wait. It's a great time. It's unsexy and it's a lot of heavy counts of breathing and it's kind of fucking awesome.

It's kinda fucking perfect.

«»

They wear suits because they have them. Because Charlie thinks they ought to look nice, even if they're gonna be sitting outside on the ground. Claire does get a nicer shirt for Chuck and she starts to look more nervous than anyone when they all sit down to get this thing started.

A church used to stand in this field. Long ago. The ground must be hallowed enough to radiate to Cas and that must have satisfied Charlie.

There are all sorts of trappings and stuff laid out on the crumbling foundation where they're instructed to sit. They just get pillows on the ground. That's all. This is not supposed to be a comfortable ceremony or a comforting thing at all.

This is a forging. It's done like a handfasting without the benefit of ropes or ties. Their very beings are supposed to be able to hold together, hold _themselves together_ , within the bond for it to work. Sam polished their reading of the text and fixed the few problematic assumptions Chuck's notes jumped to and even some of Cas's translations. He's brilliant, so no doubt he's right.

All Chuck keeps thinking about is how it would have been better if they had known each other longer. If Sam had always had his soul in his body. If it wasn't so scarred up. If they hadn't abused him. If maybe Chuck had done more research on souls. If and if and if.

They're just going to have to go into it themselves, as-is. In love like a couple of fucking stupid kids. Like Chuck has a chance in hell of hanging on. Of being that strong while something else is hot-fused to his soul.

The warnings had been clear: it doesn't burn the outsides, but it's searing inside and it has to be accepted by both of them in order to not cause them pain. So if he can't control his shit, he'll be giving Sam pain. Hurting his soul, his spirit that's already been maimed to hell and back, with all literal meaning attached.

They have to keep themselves steady for the duration for the words to take.

There are second chances, but it's not the kind of thing you want to repeat once you've gone through the first quarter of it.

It _can_ hurt.  
It does not _have to_ hurt.

It just depends how certain you can be. How sure.

Their self-esteem, even collectively, does not make this seem promising.

All Chuck's got right now is that dopey look Sam has. His amazing, devoted, content, happy in-love face.

And his own utter determination to do this for Sam.

They sit in front of one another. They write stuff down an in unfamiliar language, sharpies on thin sheets of soft metal. Cas gathers these up and sets them aside to set on fire at some point during the ceremony.

Again: they don't get ties or ropes or ribbons for this. The text is very clear. Flesh is the only thing that can hold their souls steady in the position to make this happen.

Sam read everything available. He knows this might hurt. He knows that he won't be the one to hurt Chuck. The certainty of it is in his eyes.

And he must know that Chuck is just as sure that he's gonna be the unsteady one, hurting Sam.

He's the first to put his hands out, anyway. He nods. Grips Chuck's hands tight in his own when he offers them. He doesn't have to say that he trusts him. He's just _doing this_. He whispers low, the others still settling down and taking their places. "We just try, okay? At least we try."

Chuck nods. Can't really force anything else up his throat right now. He says, "Love you," with his lips and clenches his jaw.

Sam doesn't lose his dopey look. "You, too."

Cas has to circle around and do shit and recite things and read from the text. He has to be both their voices as well as his own. He doesn't like that he isn't familiar with this dialect. It just pisses him off a little. Enough that the reading he does sounds like a lecture from a professor who can't get the little bastards in the back row to shut the fuck up.

Within twenty minutes, Chuck knows it's happening.

From what they read, they're not supposed to open their mouths. It's believed that the soul is too close and it may find easy escape this way. The book mentioned that some participants must shut their eyes for the same reason.

He thinks about the fact that his glasses are in the right pocket of Sam's jacket at this very moment.

That must be what makes the first wave bearable. He learns the feeling like a flutter in the throat. Except he remembers the way Cas folded and fused Dean's soul back into his body for the resurrection. He remembers what it feels like when the thing really is right there, too close to the surface and hot-bright. Maybe the body rejects it or is too broken and there are always reapers within spitting distance ready to snap them up and do their job. Can't just let those things wander about without their vessels.

The second wave is _not_ bearable. Already. It's already that intense. There is a dead-silence reprieve, a pause like the air making room for the breathing, ugly beast of magic, and then boiling inside of himself, at his center and radiating to his hands where the spell is drawing it. It's not natural for a soul to do this. It's normally just lit deep inside and not budged by anything except the body's failure to hold it in. It's not used to reaching out like the hands do.

Dean scoots over and sits beside Sam and when he finally puts his hand on Sam's shoulder, it doesn't disrupt anything, so Cas nods, still chanting or whatever.

Charlie stops pacing at the outside and comes to sit near Chuck. But some of the ritual swag is sitting next to him, so she doesn't move it to touch him. Which he's still grateful for.

Cas moves on to some phase where he's got to 'ting' on some fucking chimes or whatever and it gets worse with every ring for a while. Like going fifty over some speed bumps but right in the center of him and that isn't so bad until he notices that Sam isn't-- or maybe _can't_ look across at him anymore.

He tries. He really does try not to let that panic him.

You can't hide your bullshit from your own soul, though.

Claire says the first thing they've heard in English in like a half hour. She stands and sits again, at Chuck's knee. She says, because she's seen Sam say this, by now, when Chuck's in danger of spinning out of his head: "I'm gonna touch you."

And she holds Chuck's right arm steady for him.

Holy shit.

He takes it all back. She's not a troublemaking little shit at all. The guest room is now, and will officially for all time, be known as 'Claire's Room.' Even if they just end up keeping a bunch of books and a fold-out couch in there. Claire's Room.

Dean is quick to pick this up on Sam's side, holding his right arm. And Krissy comes in on the other side to get Sam's left.

Cas doesn't stop reciting and, thankfully, moves away from the noisier shit that seems to reverberate throughout the entire world and end up driving hot spikes through their spines.

Charlie has to move some weird sword array aside to sit closer to Chuck's other side, but she warns him she's gonna be on his other arm and it's sheer fucking relief for ten minutes.

Almost to the point where they're all looking at each other like, _Well, this seems easier than it's supposed to be?_

Cas promised to signal when they get to the half-way point. Someway that won't interfere with the actual spell.

He doesn't really have to, though.

Chuck lets a panicked laugh escape when it's suddenly as if gravity itself were attempting to prevent him and Sam from simply keeping their hands clasped.

Krissy, Claire, Dean, and Charlie can only do so much. Everybody looks alarmed at this turn of events.

Without breaking stride in his annoyed lecture, Cas manages to kick the zip-tied photocopy of the book over and whip it open to a page. Dean's within sight of it and still gripping his brother's arm tight, now looking over his own arm to read their notes. The page flutters slightly in the wind and Chuck watches that curiously, noting that the wind seems to pulse like the force that's trying to push his hands out of Sam's.

It's midday by now. The birds and bugs have all gone from the area. Whatever wildlife was there when they started has run for fucking cover.

Chuck has seen through the eyes of some seriously powerful witches. He remembers the taste of magic when it's on the edge of going too far.

That scent is at the back of his throat. Like ozone with an edge of ocean. Salt and decay and nature unwilling to move aside and let things fuck with it.

Whatever grip he had on the process suddenly slips away completely.  
And it _hurts_.

Sam hisses across from him and-

"Bound only with flesh," Dean says aloud.  
And his hands wrap around Sam and Chuck's to keep them clamped. Charlie helps on their side.

It's Claire and Krissy on the other side, at Chuck's right hand.

It must not be breaking the rules because nothing lessens in intensity. They're just being held together, fastened without artificial bindings, but Chuck still has to get himself under control.

It's the scent of the magic. It's how he can feel himself stepping behind the curtain and allowing someone from a memory to step in front of him.

Claire _kicks_ him. "Hey fucker. Not the time," she grits out.

Chuck blinks. And lets their bundled hands drag him out from under the waterfall. An extra annoyed tug from Dean on his left side.

Sam actually gasps in relief.

It makes Chuck remember something stupid. Something utterly insignificant. A gust of wind though a motel room doorway, cracked just so voices drift in, leaving him cold on the bed except that he got there because Sam drove him there. And he wasn't alone because Sam stood just outside, speaking to Dean. And he was tight in the covers because Sam tucked him in. And Sam's out-of-nowhere assurance that Chuck is, in fact, a safe, solid little igloo to him and suddenly he thinks they must have done something wrong.

Because it's effortless.

Sam's hands are still straining away from him. A slight bit of brightness behind his eyes like his soul really is too close to the surface and fighting it. And shit.

If he could just give that to Sam. Just _send it through_ , but that's not how this works. Right? They're not suddenly psychic just with each other. It's not even done yet.

But Sam is impacted by how Chuck's dealing with it.

If he's being _attached_ to him. If they're forging their own status, binding their own selves together?

The trick of it is, finding some way-- or _knowing_ some moment that means just as much to Sam.

And all he can think of is.  
This moment?

If he gives himself credit. If credit is due to his own self for this? Then they're here because Sam trusted him. Sam trusted him to find a book and read it. Get it translated. And when Chuck offered to bind them together? Sam said.

Yes.

Without hesitating.

While the knees of Chuck's jeans got sticky from a macchiato splash on the tiles of a Starbucks.

And so Sam truly does trust him as much as he trusts Sam. So there's no reason-

Sam looks at him.

\- no reason to hurt.

 

Sam looks lost across from him. The strain gone out of his arms and everyone else still holding on tight except for them. Just sittin'.

Looking at each other.

Confused.

"Did we screw it up?" Sam asks out loud.

Cas flaps a hand in his face and Sam blinks and shuts up.

So Castiel goes on reciting and reading for another half hour.

Charlie pulls her hands away first. Watches for Chuck to remain steady.

Squeezes his shoulder when he clearly is, and moves back.

Claire follows suit. Then Krissy.

Dean, as he always is with his brother, remains cautious. His big, sure hands still pressed over Chuck's, under Sam's. Stays until it looks like Cas is winding down, reaching the last pages of his notes.

He doesn't scoot away, though. Watches from up close for any change.

Chuck wonders if this is the same or different from the old ceremony. If it worked. How they'll know. If that wasn't enough pain and drama. Or if the people who wrote the damn thing down just never figured on meddling Winchesters finding loopholes in their loopholes.

Like they do with everything else.

Cas reaches the last words and the last 'tings' on the chimes and ceremonially cuts and ties something, sets the metal they wrote on in a bowl with flames, and, come to think of it, this shit has all got to be completely decorative. Everything but the people and the hands and the words. Nothing has felt different since Chuck just decided that he must have already known that he handed himself to Sam a long time ago.

Cas steps around Dean and pulls their hands apart himself.

And, as if it had been there a while, there it is.  
The bind.  
Like it had just been waiting for a knot to be tied at the ends.

Something is strung through the both of them even when both of their hands are back in their own laps, red and cramped and squished from other clenching fingers.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing like seeing through Sam's eyes again. Just like a restart after a software installation. Like he knows, somehow, that if Sam needed his soul guarded from something, Chuck would be there on the other end, laughingly rejecting the notion that anyone was allowed close enough to harm him.

Maybe more easily described--

Well. This is weird. Chuck being who he is and they being who they are.

But it's kind of like the solid foundation of surety Dean has always had that Sam is gonna outlive him.

Only.

Chuck and Sam also kind of just got married and they're definitely both troublemaking Winchesters now and they're almost certainly going to tug on the bind until they learn to play telephone through it.

It's clear that wasn't the intended use of the binding. But it was also probably some massively unhealthy, "I promise not to die without you" scheme and, hello?  
_**Winchesters.**_

Sam narrows his eyes and his head drops a little to the side.

He's staring.

"I mean. Is there a 'kiss the bride' part?" Krissy asks.

"You may now go do that in private or I'm gonna hurl," Dean says.

"You may now kiss?" Cas shrugs.

Count on Sam to leap across the short distance and do just that with all six feet and four inches of too much enthusiasm.

«»

They don't make them pack up all the ceremony stuff.

Cas presses something into Sam's hand and Sam pulls Chuck to the car and they get in.

Sam drives away from it all until they hear birds again, through the windows, and turn toward a field and a dirt road. Grasses swaying and a storm rolling in toward them. The sky purple and gray with it.

Sam reaches to roll the windows down the rest of the way and let in the breeze smelling like rain.

He only gets as far as hooking his hair behind his ears and Chuck is just climbing over to his lap to sit.

Chuck struggles out of his jacket and tosses it to the back seat.

Sam pulls the rings Cas gave him out of his pocket.

He blindly puts one in either hand, closes them tight and offers both fists to Chuck.

He considers them. Taps the left.

Sam opens his hand and there's the one that Chuck bought for him. Made out of silver and meteorite.

Chuck takes it and puts it on Sam's hand and says, "I've seen enough of this on television, I ought to be able to recite that 'to have and to hold, until death do us part' shit."

"I, Sam, promise I already know all that crap about you. Amen. Or whatever."

He opens his other hand and shows Chuck a pretty awesome ring that's dark, patterned silver and sigils on the inside.

"Crow moon. Forged under the last full moon before spring," he says, putting it on Chuck's finger. "It should help you find your way back to yourself sooner. When you get caught behind somebody else."

Chuck sighs relief. "I, Chuck, am clearly just in it for the sex, amen."

"You better take care of us, Lord, or you're gonna have us on your hands," Sam grins.

Chuck pets his hair. "How do we feel?"

"Tired. Pretty good, though," he pulls Chuck in tight. "I feel awfully married. I feel like our family just held us together so we could do this crazy thing that we'll probably never need but they knew it was important to us." Sam shrugs. "I feel like looking for you on the other end of it until I find you and can't lose track of you."

"Me too. We're probably not supposed to do that, but we both kind of have experience digging around in other heads. You have my permission to do that, by the way, if it turns out you can. It maybe won't work," he warns.

"No, I know. I barely even feel it. But I just. Feel it enough," he wraps his arms around Chuck and they watch the world from inside a car. Sam has to steady himself to say it. "You have permission, too. If you can find me on the other end of it. You're allowed. But nobody else is."

Chuck gets really choked up. "You don't have to give me that," he insists, his voice thin. "This was all so nobody could ever do that to you."

Sam takes a deep breath. "There's a difference. Between choosing that ahead of time. And not because it's a choice that will eventually _have to be_ made. Maybe-" Sam shifts and swallows. Finds a breath. "Maybe I wanna give my husband everything I have."

"Fuck. That's. Um. That's. You're so amazing," all he can do is press tight to Sam and say that for the thousandth time.

"Okay. But I wouldn't be amazing without you. So. Stick around and keep me in line, alright? Please?"

Chuck kisses him. An almost automatic reaction.

Sam wraps tight around him.

"Nothing feels different," Chuck suddenly marvels, head dropped against Sam's shoulder. "Nothing really feels different. I still want to finish that house with you. And live alone with you there. And write stuff. And go out and stop bad guys every so often. And worship you. And get coffee. I think it's just. Now I know I'm not ever leaving. I never wanted to and now I know I won't ever have to leave you alone. I'm not leaving you alone."

"Cool. That's my plan, too. We sound married as all hell," Sam smiles.

They're quiet for a while. Until that's nice and all but kind of boring. So Chuck starts kissing him and makes them promising, slow kisses and Sam knows which ones they are. Scoops him in his arms a certain way and leans into him for just a really nice makeout session.

"We're gonna have lunch with everybody and then head back," he finally says, hushed between them.

"Okay. I think I'm buying. I think they helped us a lot. I think they contributed to my nefarious plan."

"I think you have zero dollars in zero bank accounts now, Mr. Winchester. With your criminal activities," Sam grins real wide.

"Damn. Good point. Will you pick it up, then? I'll pay you back. Promise," he pushes his fingers into Sam's hair, holds him close.

"I've got you," Sam shrugs. And he means the bill for lunch but he means more than that. "Day one. We broke your old life. You're just gonna have to start a new one with me."

Chuck really, really loves this giant, romantic sap.

So, it's a diner again. In another no-name town. Of which there will be hundreds more.

Sam and Chuck wait together at the diner. Together and picking through the sugar packets and stirring their coffees. Shirts untucked and, underneath, secretly armed to the teeth. They stay quiet and look for that slight string running through them both. Not mentioning it, but catching each other's eyes and _knowing_ that's what they're doing.

Smiling, looking for trouble.

Pressing their hands together and looking at the difference in size and just marveling over one another.

They wait for the rest of the Winchesters.

**Author's Note:**

> [The Great Magnet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y04aQgBT3mo)  
> [Dock Ellis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vUhSYLRw14) and [Re-creating the LSD no-no](http://deadspin.com/the-electric-dock-ellis-acid-test-an-attempt-to-recrea-5812384)  
> [Arthur Russell - A Little Lost](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXH1Fk-EDFo)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [#meta](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5718511) by [domesticadventures](https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures)




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